


The Writing on The Wall

by inkycreamscone



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, But it's fucking obvious, Draco has a crush on Harry, Duelling, Enemies to Lovers, Eventual Smut, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Lucius is actually pretty funny beyond the grave, M/M, Misunderstandings and angst galore, Mystery, Oh and there’s a LOT of jealousy because that’s fun, Quidditch, god I hate tagging whooo, he won't admit it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-02
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-04 23:00:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25034341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inkycreamscone/pseuds/inkycreamscone
Summary: Eighth Year fic in which Draco is an outcast, Harry is the Golden Boy, and a Muggle song scrawled on a shower wall, of all things, bridges the years of... everything between them. The only hitch is- neither of them realise who they're communicating with as they scribble lyrics down one after the other.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley
Comments: 22
Kudos: 65





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note: I don't own these characters, or this universe. They belong to JK Rowling, and I am but a mere fangirl who loves this ship with everything I am. Please don't redistribute/ translate this story without my express permission. 
> 
> Ok, so for the sake of all things fun I've kept a couple of characters on the Quidditch teams who probably would have left Hogwarts by the time Draco and co. reached Eighth Year- just thought you should know before you go casting aspersions on my awareness of the Hogwarts timeline, cause I'm a brat about that. With that in mind, and with the respectful request that you don't trample over my delicate feelings too badly... have fun :) . Oh, also- please spread the lurve, leave kudos, and comment what you think!

***The Quidditch showers***

The hot water ran in rivulets down Draco’s face, running into his eyes, soaking his hair and his emerald Quidditch undershorts. He opened his mouth in enjoyment, the way it was natural for him to do in the shower, tilting his head back and letting the water pool on his tongue and in the hollows of his throat. His muscles relaxed under the soapy onslaught, exhausted from two hours of gripping his broom tightly, steering and diving and flying against the cruel October wind. The material of his Slytherin shorts moulded to his legs, drenched a dark, wet green, silver piping glinting dully. As he ran his hands through his hair, he hummed a tune over and over. 

“Da- da dum, dum, dum, dum, da- da dum.”

A little melody, rendered rough and low in the boyish timbre of his voice, but in his head each note was shrill and high. He knew the song by heart- a Muggle song. He’d heard it sometime after his father’s funeral. Lucius had just died, weak from Azkaban and the inevitable fall of Voldemort, and Narcissa had fled mere days before to somewhere in the South of France. She’d tried to make Draco come with her, but he’d been determined- just to spite her, she’d said angrily- to stay for eighth- year. He could still recall, Draco thought bitterly, the sight of her pale face, a little decorous tear gleaming on her cheek, as she Apparated away from him.

 _‘If you’re so upset,’_ He’d wanted to scream at her, _‘Then don’t go! Don’t leave me.’_ But he hadn’t said anything. And she’d gone, whisked away in a little whirlwind of grief and fear and, he now recognised, selfishness. 

Draco, unwilling to stay in Malfoy Manor, had rented a little apartment in London with a small fraction of the contents of the Malfoy vault, and tried to be normal for the few weeks that needed to expire before he could return to Hogwarts. One evening in the small dark bookstore he’d taken to haunting, that song had come on. He’d never paid any particular attention to the music playing before, but this song- it had arrested him where he was walking, running a finger over the worn spines of the books. He’d stayed frozen until the last notes faded, the thin flexible voice had died away. After that, he’d made the little old shopkeeper play it every time he came, at least once, until he knew each word by heart. Lost in thought, Draco remembered the smell of the old paper, wax and dust mites and sunshine dancing in the musty air to the sound of that unnamed Muggle singer, who had captured Draco more successfully than any magic had before. On an impulse, Draco seized his wand from where it was lying in a little nook on the shower wall, and, with careful intent, started to scratch words onto the shower wall. Scrawling black script, in his own Malfoy- taught cursive- the first two lines from the song.

_‘Don’t tell my mom, don’t tell my dad. I’ve been driving down to LA with my baby.’_

Stepping back to admire his work, Draco smiled to himself. Small joys like defacing school property- it was nice to feel like a schoolboy again. If Draco concentrated hard enough, he could feel Pansy’s sharp elbow against his ribs, jabbing him- 

“Draco, sit up! You can’t sleep in Transfiguration. _Draco_. Draco.” Or, “Draco Malfoy, if you think for one minute I’m going to lend you my Charms notes you have a second think coming. At least get out your quill and try to look like you’re listening. No, I don’t care if Crabbe’s not paying attention. If he fails, that isn’t my problem.”  
And then she’d soften, and say, “Look, I didn’t play Sphinxes and Riddles with him when we were six, did I? I don’t want you to fail, Draco. Come on, I’ll let you look at my notes for the first part of the lesson. Just try and follow what he’s saying now.”

Pansy hadn’t come back for eighth- year. Her parents had sent her off to a finishing school in Switzerland, and she wasn’t allowed an owl. Draco had sent her letters, of course, but there was no way to know she’d read them. It had been lonely living in London alone, but somehow being surrounded by hundreds of students all day was even lonelier. It had struck him sometime in the middle of his second week trailing miserably to classes how he had really made enemies of most of his year during his first six years at school, and how the few who hadn’t hated him now hated him anyway because of what he’d done in his seventh. He even got nasty looks from a few Slytherins, which in his opinion was a bit rich, but what could you do? Who was going to listen to him complain about the hypocritical bastards when everybody despised him? 

Draco did, at least, have Quidditch, where the team respected the fact that they needed him enough to let him alone. He was captain, so they couldn’t have kicked him out of the team themselves, but they were when all was said and done Slytherins. If they wanted him off the team, there were several ways to push him towards quitting. But they had decided, instead, just to be politely frosty. It was really the best he could hope for, Draco reflected. However, he still liked to stay in the changing room showers until they were all gone. Walking out in a towel- the most hated person in school, completely vulnerable- might have been just too much temptation for the team to resist. And Draco would have hated to be expelled for breaking a few arms. 

If he listened carefully- Draco turned the shower off and stuck his ear close to the stall door- yes, they were gone. There was no sound of damp feet, no voices echoing against the hollow wooden walls of the Quidditch changing rooms. He opened the stall door and wrapped a towel, hanging from a nearby rack, around his waist. Draco cast a quick Tempus- it was nearly six. He was late for dinner. Cursing under his breath the amount of time his teammates took to get dressed, Draco pulled on his school uniform at top speed, combing his fingers through his wet hair. There was no time to gel it. Staring despondently at himself in the mirror, Draco’s inner Narcissa winced at the sight of his rumpled shirt. Even worse, still damp from the shower, he started to sweat from the starchy cotton against his skin. Draco pushed his shirtsleeves up, threw his tie on- thank Salazar Lucius had drilled him in the art of tying an excellent half- Windsor; his fingers fairly flew as he knotted the green and silver material- and ran out of the door with his Quidditch bag, stuffed full of gear, banging against his leg. 

*************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

***The Great Hall* ******

The Great Hall buzzed with students, hands reaching for chicken legs, great tureens of peas and ladlefuls of soup. Draco passed like a shadow between the rows of people, weaving his way towards a far corner of the Slytherin table. Nobody looked up as he passed, head down. It was a good thing too, he thought musingly, because he was really not in the mood for anyone to comment on the state of his hair. Draco made an effort to keep his shoulders away from his ears- he didn’t mind being alone, but actively projecting the image of awkward ex- Death Eater was a bridge too far. Just because people thought he was something didn’t mean he had to act the part. So Draco shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and put his shoulders back, now doing what could only be described as an unattractively arrogant swagger down the length of the Great Hall, passing between the Gryffindor and Hufflepuff tables. He winced inside. There was playing for unconcerned, and then there was this. And, yes- people were actually starting to look at him- scornful, disgusted looks that made him grit his teeth and pretend his skin was as thick as his mother’s. 

Just as Draco was nearing the front of the hall, about to turn right and head straight for the Slytherin table, something wet and slimy hit his left cheek. Draco stopped dead. Shocked, he put a hand to his face and looked around in confusion. An onion slice, purplish- grey and scaled like a corpse, lay mangled on the floor. Draco raked a murderous glance down the Hufflepuff table- the only possible place it could’ve come from. The closest part of the table yielded culprits. A third- year boy, sitting with a self- satisfied smirk planted right in the middle of his face. Hot anger, boiling with pent- up force, ripped down Draco’s spine. He gripped his wand tightly, wishing he could jinx the boy to a jelly. The little bastard had probably just done it to earn himself a bit of respect. Given that Draco had never seen him on the Quidditch pitch and Hufflepuffs were idiots as a general rule, he was sure that the kid was mediocre to the last degree. Was this what it had come to? Now Draco was like the weedy little kid mediocre children bullied when they were six or seven, just because it was cool? 

The smirk faded off the Hufflepuff’s face as he took in the look in Draco’s eyes. Little shit had forgotten that he was messing with an eighth- year. For one heady second, Draco imagined shoving the idiot’s face into his plateful of mashed potato. But he was itchingly aware, even then, of eyes on him. It went against every grain of his pride to take his hand off the smooth handle of his wand, give the Hufflepuff one last furious stare, and turn. And it would’ve been fine, he would’ve moved on, but then from where he turned around a jeer arose, undoubtedly from the same arrogant worm. Draco whirled, hand flying back to his wand and whipping it out. Before the sneer could even die from the boy’s lips, the kid screamed in shock. He slid to the floor, writhing oddly. The entire Hall erupted in yells. Draco was faintly aware of the teachers rising to their feet from their table. Draco didn’t even know what he’d done to the boy. Horror pooled in his stomach. Had he inadvertently used the Cruciatus on him? A vision flashed before his eyes; smooth, pale skin, slits for nostrils, red eyes like fire. A wand that twirled and jabbed and a high shrill voice laughing, laughing, as Draco twitched in agony on the ground. Draco ran to the Hufflepuff table. A small fair- haired girl who had been sitting beside the boy shrank away from him, pointing down to where the third- year was writhing. 

Relief flooded through Draco’s veins. He clapped a hand over his mouth too late; a shout of laughter escaped him, echoing over the worried murmurs of students. The boy couldn’t get up- he couldn’t stand at all. A long, muscular tail stretched down from his torso instead of legs, scales iridescent in the dinner candlelight. A bony hand came down upon Draco’s shoulder- he looked up to see Professor McGonagall standing behind him. He opened his mouth to defend himself, but she held up a hand to silence him. 

“Quiet, everyone!” the Headmistress said sharply. “There is no need for uproar. Now, Mr Warren,” the boy gulped on the floor, mouth opening and closing like a landed fish, “are you alright?” 

The Hufflepuff looked incredulous at such a question. Though the kid was a cocky little bastard, Draco wanted to tell him to wipe that look off his face. Professor McGonagall did not appreciate being treated like an idiot. Predictably, her mouth thinned even further than its normal prim line, becoming barely visible to any eyes without a Sharpening Charm on them. 

“Close your mouth, boy, you look as though somebody had fed you a bad Pepper- Up Potion.” Warren winced, tail thrashing as though independent from his upper body. 

Professor McGonagall executed a complicated wave with her wand. The boy’s golden goblet soared off the table, hovered in the air for a second, and then Transfigured into a stretcher. Warren was levitated up onto the white cotton while leather cords bound him down. As soon as he was secure, McGonagall flicked her wand. The stretcher fled at breakneck speed, no doubt carrying Mr Warren to the hospital wing for magical correction. Draco wondered why Professor McGonagall had not simply reversed the spell herself, but when she stepped back and turned to face Draco, he saw with a kind of pleasant shock that her nostrils were twitching with amusement. 

“Mr Malfoy.” Draco made an effort to look sorry, but McGonagall seemed uninclined to reprimand him. Amazed, Draco had to remind himself that the idiot had thrown food at him.  
“I trust you will make an effort to keep your temper in check in future?” Draco nodded. Face restored to its usual frown, Professor McGonagall swept back up to the staff table, leaving Draco standing, wand dangling uselessly by his side. 

“Oh, and Mr Malfoy--?” McGonagall turned suddenly. Draco looked up. “By keep your temper in check, I ,of course, mean try to stay calm enough to cast a proper jinx. Muddled magic can have serious consequences.” 

Draco grinned. “Yes, Professor.”

“Good, Mr Malfoy. You may go.” 

Still smiling, Draco headed hastily for the Slytherin table, no longer paying attention to any looks thrown his way. The Hall settled down as he took a seat, grabbed a chicken leg, and started to eat ravenously, feeling the Quidditch- induced hunger start to abate. 

Draco pushed his hair back with a careless hand, suddenly remembering its un-gelled state. He cringed; everyone had seen it. Draco looked up surreptitiously, trying to see if anyone was looking at the state of his hair. He cast his gaze over the Great Hall, but there was only the chatter of students, the emphatic bites of the ever- hungry adolescent. No eyes looked towards Draco Malfoy. And then- out of Draco’s peripheral vision- he sensed somebody watching. Draco flicked his eyes over to the right, and caught a flash of green irises as a dark head was hurriedly bent towards its plate, eyes averted. Draco leant in with a stab of something he couldn’t identify piercing his lungs.  
Potter. 

Draco choked on his chicken, letting the hunk of meat fall from his hand and land with a clatter on his plate. The surprise of seeing those green eyes fixed on him made him swallow, hard, for multiple reasons, most of which he would have preferred not to think about. Draco recalled with a wince the nights spent staring at the swathes of material covering the top of his four- poster, visualising those very same green eyes, trying to pinpoint the exact emotion they stirred up in his belly. He had never succeeded. He glanced up again through his hair, which had fallen forwards over his forehead. No; Potter was now engaged in conversation with Weasley, who had become if possible more gangly and red- headed since the War. Draco had heard rumours that he was with Granger, and it had made his stomach leap, not in joy for the happy couple, but because secretly he’d always thought maybe Potter would… well, he’d always hated Granger for being close to Potter, And after Granger’s little Cinderella act- he had become familiar with Muggle fairy tales while haunting the London bookshop every day- at the Yule Ball, Draco hadn’t slept for weeks, thinking feverishly of ways to uglify her permanently. He told himself once again that it was only that he hadn’t wanted to see Granger happy. Or Potter. It was because he hated Potter. Hated him. 

Now, of course, Draco thought firmly, he couldn’t care less about the lot of them. No- he picked up his chicken leg and resumed his slow demolition of it- the Golden Trio was no longer his concern. 

Especially Potter. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... there you go. Thoughts?


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A discovery in the Quidditch showers and an unburdening of one blond Slytherin's troubles by the magic powers of quill and ink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone likes this one- it's not too action- filled, but it's a build up I guess. I don't know. There's so much emotion I can't really tell what it is to be honest. Draco likes his secrets and I'm not the invasive type.

***The Quidditch showers***

Draco wiped the sweat from his forehead, pulling his robes over his head and using them to mop his brow. Still breathing harshly from practice, he bent, removed his shoes and socks, and walked over to the showers with his wand in hand, shutting himself in a cubicle. Just as he closed the door, he remembered what he had done the last time he’d been in the Quidditch showers. A slow grin spread over his face; still holding his wand, he switched stalls and locked the door, turning the shower on. Draco ducked under the warm water, soaking his hair so it clung to his face and trailed in his eyes. He swept it back with an impatient hand, and turned to the wall where he had inscribed the lines of the song. At first glance, he was sure something was wrong. Three lines, scrawled down on the shining white tiles, stared back at him. Draco frowned, reading them through, a feeling akin to being set on fire spreading through his body before he even realized what was different. 

_‘Don’t tell my mom, don’t tell my dad, I’ve been driving down to LA with my baby. On the cliffs, he drives real fast.’  
_

_‘On the cliffs, he drives real fast.’_

Had Draco written that? He wracked his brains, trying to remember if he’d scratched two lines or three. His thoughts spun.  
But who would write a third line? Who would know the song? Who…

He was being ridiculous. 

_Stop it, Draco,_ he told himself firmly. _Just because you’re lonely doesn’t mean you invent an imaginary person who completes songs on shower walls. You definitely wrote that._  
More to stop himself thinking than anything, Draco ducked back under the shower spray, scrubbing his hands through his hair and massaging his scalp roughly. But his eyes opened as though controlled by a wilful spirit, and snatched another glance at the inscription. Though his pupils stung, hazed with water, he couldn’t tear his gaze away.

_‘On the cliffs, he drives real fast.’_

Draco must have written it. But his Malfoy curiosity made his fingertips itch. Prove it, his mind screamed. Prove you wrote it. 

But he couldn’t remember. So he did the only thing he could think to do; he laid out a test.

Draco picked up his wand from the nook where he’d put it, and stepped up to the wall again, wet fingers set in that peculiar grip on his wand handle that burned black lines into the glistening tiles. Carefully, heart pounding, he scratched another line. 

_‘He may drive his car into the ocean maybe.’_

There. Now, when he returned for Quidditch practice next week and nobody had written anything more, Draco would know that he’d been fooling himself. But a tiny voice, gouging an acid hole in the pit of his stomach, murmured, “What if someone replies?”

And he couldn’t quench that voice, no matter how hard he lathered himself in soap and scrubbed it away. No matter how much time passed, the black lines stayed scrawled on his retinas, printed there so he couldn’t blink them away. 

Over the next few days, the idea of the song haunted him. It was constantly at the back of his mind, and now he was having a million different ideas as to what he could have done to check that it was somebody else who had written the next line. He longed to go back to the changing rooms and see if there was anything more, but it wasn’t Slytherin practice till next week. If any other member of the Slytherin team had been caught sneaking in they would only have been kicked out by the other house teams. But Draco the ex Death- Eater? He wasn’t keen on facing down a bunch of angry Quidditch players, all of them probably yelling about a mother or brother or second cousin twice removed who’d been hurt by one of Voldemort’s many followers. No; he’d have to wait and see. 

At dinner, Draco was even more distant than usual. Theo Nott, another ex- Death Eater’s son who he usually hung around with for lack of other options, looked at him strangely but didn’t say anything when Draco went to bed at seven every night. He didn’t bother explaining. Theo was a nice guy, he thought miserably, probably too nice to be a Slytherin. He was a victim of circumstance; it wasn’t Theo’s fault that his dad was a nutter. But Draco? Draco had joined his father in the nutter’s cult. 

He would’ve told Pansy. Pansy would have understood. But Pansy… was sleeping somewhere in a Swiss dormitory with eleven other girls, in Swiss bedsheets that weren’t Slytherin green and Swiss hangings that probably didn’t depict snakes coiled in various different artistic positions.

And then the realisation dawned on him, like a small present he hadn’t expected. Pansy wasn’t here, but he could still write to her. 

And tell her what? That you’re obsessing over some writing on the wall of the Quidditch showers? Part of his brain demanded mulishly. But he was already pulling out a piece of parchment from the bureau that stood at the end of the dormitory, picking up a spare quill and pulling the ink pot towards him. The irresistible charm of pouring out one’s mind had him spellbound- before he knew it there were cursive words spilling out onto the parchment like thread from a spool. 

_‘Dear Pansy,  
It’s Draco. How is Switzerland? I hope it’s rubbish, and that you feel properly sorry for leaving me here.’  
_ Did that sound too self- pitying? Maybe it just seemed like that because, though it was meant to be a joke, Draco meant what he was saying a little more than he wanted Pansy to know. Still, there was no way she could know how lonely he’d been. But he didn’t want her to feel sorry for him. Just in case…  
_‘I’ve been hanging around with Theo Nott lately. He’s—’_

Decent? Quiet? 

Not you?

_‘a nice bloke. It’s great to play Quidditch again, but it feels strange to go to lessons and be in uniform after everything. Don’t think anybody’s really forgiven me for what I did, but—’_

But what? But nothing. The ‘but’ was meant to convey that it was alright, really, but it manifestly was not alright. Nobody had forgiven him, and he had not moved on.

_‘but I’m coping.’_

Draco snorted. Should he tell her how exactly he was coping? By dreaming up people scribbling the next few words to a song that he was almost certain only he knew. 

_‘Before school, in London, you remember the bookshop I told you about? Antique-y little place, millions of books, old lady running the joint? I heard this song, a Muggle song—’_

Was he honestly doing this? He was going to tell Pansy everything? Draco tried to pull his hand away from the parchment, take a second to think about what he was doing, but something that had been wound tight deep in his gut stopped him. It needed to be loosened. He couldn’t not tell her now that he had begun. The prospect of finally unburdening himself was too sweet.

_‘and I couldn’t get it out of my head. I listened to it every day. It was like… an anthem, you know? Technically, the lyrics had nothing to do with me, or my situation. But it just felt like he- the Muggle singer, I mean- was speaking to me. I’ve had it in my head since I came back to school, and the other day I—’_

Draco cringed.

_‘I was in the showers after Quidditch and I got this urge to write a couple of lines- or a few lines, I can’t remember- on the shower wall.’_  
He could imagine Pansy’s face right about now; disapproving as hell, mouth pursed and eyes flat. “Please tell me you didn’t, Draco,” she’d say acidly. He grinned.  
_‘So I did. I burned them in with my wand. And—’_

He couldn’t resist-

_‘it looked pretty damn awesome. But the thing is, I can’t remember if I wrote two lines or three lines of the song. When I went back the next week, there were three lines. And I thought someone had written the next line- but it could have been me. I don’t know. It’s confusing. So I wrote another line of the song on the wall, and now I know there are four on there, so when I go back next week I’m going to see if somebody’s done the next one or if I imagined the whole thing. ’_

Draco read the letter through, setting his quill down gently. Suddenly, the entire incident seemed ludicrous to him. Of course it had been him. Who was going to know a Muggle song? He swore quietly. Suddenly, he didn’t want to say any more. He picked up his quill once more and slashed a hasty goodbye, telling Pansy he would write to her again and that he hoped to see her soon; whenever she was on holiday. Quickly, he dashed down the dormitory stairs, through the common room, and out into the bowels of the school. Mentally, he cursed the fact that the Slytherin common room was so many levels down. His legs ached as he ran up the main staircase, tie loosened and shirtsleeves pushed up. When he finally reached the landing that preceded the Owlery, he rounded the corner at breakneck speed, letter clutched in his hand, and promptly crashed into someone. 

Draco reeled backwards, clutching his stomach and wheezing, head down. His eyes streamed from the force of the impact. When his vision finally cleared enough for him to look up, he recoiled at the sight of the person in front of him, arms wrapped protectively around himself, bent over and hacking. 

_Sweet Salazar_ , Draco thought viciously. _Just my luck._

It was Potter.

Before Draco could get a word out, Potter was holding up a hand, still coughing- rather dramatically, Draco thought. “Jesus, Malfoy,” he gasped. “Do you always round corners at that pace?”

“Only when I’m in a hurry,” Draco snapped, and immediately regretted it. Potter’s mouth curled into a tiny smirk. Draco’s heart convulsed; he mentally gave it a shake and told it to behave. 

_No,_ he thought. _We’re past that. Don’t go back there._

“That was an opening for an apology, Malfoy. I should’ve know you would never take it.”

“Apology?” Draco rounded on him, feeling irrationality take control of him. “Why should I apologise?”

“Well, I don’t know…” Potter’s brow furrowed, as he stroked his chin in mock- thought. “You were the one speeding through the corridors at breakneck speed.”

“I wasn’t the one who didn’t check around the corner.”

“I shouldn’t have needed to,” Potter bit back, and Draco was unreasonably pleased by the flush of colour on the other boy’s pale cheeks. _I did that,_ he thought, and then shoved the thought away.

“You see, Malfoy, normally when a person turns a corner they don’t need to check if someone else is coming, just so long as that someone else isn’t sprinting like they have a Firebolt up their arse. If everyone is travelling at a normal speed, collisions like this are virtually impossible. You don’t need a magical eye that can see through walls and look ahead—” Potter broke off, looking away from Draco.

 _Right_. Draco remembered dumbly. _Mad- Eye Moody._

He took a deep breath.

“Look, Potter—”

“Forget it, Malfoy. Just… whatever. Go ahead.” Potter went around Draco, leaving a deliberately wide berth between them that stung Draco more than he cared to admit. He was too proud to go after the Gryffindor- _‘and why would you want to anyway?’_ he asked himself fiercely.

Instead, Draco carried on to the Owlery, tying his now slightly crumpled letter to the scaly leg of a malevolent- eyed tawny that he liked the look of. Slowly, he backed out of the high- windowed Owlery, which smelt not unpleasantly of hay, and made the long descent back to the Slytherin common room.

*******************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

***One week later, the Quidditch showers***

The wind blurred Draco’s vision. His emerald robes, dulled by spatterings of mud and sweat, whipped around him like a flag. His muscles ached relentlessly from gripping the broom, and his fingers felt like they were frozen in place. 

“Remington, Wells, get in position! If the Chasers are coming straight at the Keeper, you’re really planning on just hovering there like two puppets with their strings cut and letting them?” He yelled.

Remington and Wells gaped at him.

Draco sighed. “No! Hit the Bludger at them! Make them scatter! Disrupt their arrangement!” His voice hoarsened every time he went to shout again, and the team were quickly becoming as unresponsive as annoyed Hippogriffs. 

“All right, let’s call it a day,” he shouted. “Well done everyone!”

The rest of the team soared past him to the changing rooms, muttering thanks under their breaths. A hot coil of dread and something else that had been sitting heavily in Draco’s stomach all the while seemed to uncurl and swell to fill his body at the thought of the writing on the shower wall. It was all he could do not to scream with urgency as he turned his broom at breakneck pace and zoomed towards the changing tooms.

He sped past the others, landing quickly and nearly stumbling, but catching himself before the lot of them could snigger. Draco took his broom in hand and jogged to the changing rooms, opening the door with forced restraint, and trying not to rip his clothes off until the team had dispersed from the usual traffic jam at the doorway.

Impatiently, Draco grabbed his wand and headed for the showers, ripping open the cubicle door and shutting himself inside. He couldn’t bring himself to turn the tiniest degree to the right, so that the writing would be visible. A great pulsing ball of excitement that seemed vaguely disproportionate to the situation sat like an emotional leech in his chest, draining any other thoughts. He closed his eyes, drawing in a breath, trying to calm himself down. Briefly, he wondered if it was sad that he was breathless over this. Then, with a measured step that belied his racing heart, he turned to face the wall. 

And there it was.

Spiky, written in a scrawling hand, a slightly off- kilter line of script just below Draco’s own cursive.

_‘I don’t mind.’_

Something in Draco’s chest tightened and leaped- the ball of excitement was now thrashing like a caged bird, throwing itself against his ribs until he was dizzy and grinning under the warm water of the shower. The smile didn’t fade from his face, not even when his muscles began to ache, not when the cool air from the changing rooms struck him, not when he reached up to dry his face with a towel. The reaction was so visceral it was as though he'd been spelled to react so strongly- but Draco couldn’t say he’d ever been more pleased about having a curse put on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yay! What does everyone think?


	3. 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The writing in the Quidditch showers continues to haunt Draco, and Charms class yields about three mysteries, none of which are academic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some weird as hell discoveries, the birthing of some new plot threads, and not even that much real action...but, like, angst? *insert Valley Girl voice* Also, I invented a Tipsy Jinx because, well, I can, and frankly it sounds so fun. Please comment and leave kudos and don't shred my heart to pieces.  
> Thanks for reading :)

For the next week, Draco thought only of the writing on the shower wall. He stumbled through classes in a feverish state, hair mussed, visualising only the spiky scrawl that he’d seen burned into the tiles. He’d told himself time and time again that it was ridiculous, that the fact that another student knew the Muggle song was coincidental, unimportant. However, it hadn’t stopped him from scrawling down the next line of the song, heart pathetically in his throat, hair plastered wetly over his forehead. He didn’t know what it was about burning the words into the wall- what he felt… it was like a storm of emotion, of power. The concentrated tingling of his magic in his fingertips, mingled with a muddied cocktail of excitement, confusion, and curiosity made his head buzz pleasantly. 

At the moment, however, Draco was fighting a raging headache, battling his way through the treacle- thick crowds on the way to Double Charms, NEWT level. What fun. He heaved his bag over his shoulder, tugging the strap closer to him and frowning hard. The pulses of pain right behind his eyes made it hard to concentrate on anything- the pushing, yelling mass of students surrounding him in the wide corridor blurred together into a single vicious body determined to split his head in two. He pressed the heel of his hand into his right eye, gripping his hair tightly and trying to regain some clarity. Draco didn’t realise he’d slowed down dramatically until a kid nearly collapsed his kidney with a bony elbow to the back, having stumbled right into him and tried to carry on sprinting as though there wasn’t a blonde, six foot Eighth Year standing directly in front of him. Draco groaned, clapping his hand to the meat of his back and speeding up, nearly buckled over in bewildered pain. By the time he’d gotten a few metres further, he found that he could barely see from the cleaving, white- hot knife behind his eyes. He stumbled, blinked, and jerked as a light hand gripped the crook of his right arm, steering him into the nearest corridor on the left and then through a large, narrow door bearing the number ‘347’ on it in dull gilt- his Charms classroom. He peered to his right.

Theo Nott.

The boy gave Draco a nod, releasing him gently but staying turned towards him, arms slightly outstretched. Draco wondered what he was doing for a second, before he turned too fast, wobbled, and was caught by those deceptively strong arms. He swallowed, took a deep breath, and righted himself.

“Cheers, Theo,” he said awkwardly.

“No problem,” Theo replied quickly, giving Draco an almost motherly little smile and taking a seat once he’d slipped behind his desk and into his chair by the windows.

Draco gasped, feeling his forehead. It was hot, extremely hot. Theo turned back to him sharply.

“What’s up?”

Draco stared. “What’s up? I nearly broke my skull open blundering around the corridors with my head gripped in my hands and you’re asking me what’s up? Obviously there’s something wrong with me.” 

Theo blinked, and said delicately. “I assumed… well, I guessed you were just upset.”

“Upset? About what?” Draco asked incredulously.

With a bang that made Draco start, a newspaper, sepia pictures flashing and moving, was slammed down onto his desk by a brown hand. Theo grimaced.

Draco looked up angrily, head still spinning. Blaise Zabini glared down at him.

“The front page, Malfoy. I swear to Salazar, I won’t stand for it. If you had anything to do with this…” he spat, gesturing hotly at the paper.

Draco glanced at the front page, bewildered- and froze, short of breath suddenly.

“LUCIUS MALFOY POSTHUMOUSLY STRIPPED OF ALL TITLES AND HONOURS AFTER NEW WAR ATROCITIES REVEALED”

Below that, a subheading declared:

“OTHER PROMINENT MEMBERS OF SOCIETY IN QUESTION INCLUDE CREOSOL GOYLE, LAVINIA ZABINI AND MARRIED COUPLE LORD AND LADY PARKINSON”

Draco had one half- second to think, _Pansy’s parents,_ and then there was Zabini, right in Draco’s face, chocolate eyes venomous. 

“If you think for one second that you can drag my mother down with your father—"

Draco interrupted, reeling. “I didn’t do this!”

Zabini scoffed. “Who else had inside information on the most underground, secret stuff the Death Eaters did? Who else has been trying to clear his name with the bloody Ministry ever since they basically put his father _in the ground_?” 

A particularly well- aimed jab from the knife inside Draco’s head made him hack into the sleeve of his robes. Zabini recoiled, looking disgusted in an aristocratic sort of way that made Draco long to punch him. He gritted his teeth, trying to stay lucid.

“Look, Zabini, it wasn’t me who ratted them out, okay? Now for god’s sake leave me the—” Draco broke off, clapping a hand to his forehead as a searing pain went through it. The knife behind his eyes was now slicing steadily into his optic nerves. Draco gasped for breath, head pounding, and dark red spots appeared in his vision. He shook his head frantically, trying to clear them, but he could only wheeze and cough into his hand. To his horror, a spray of garish red erupted onto his palm, peppering his mouth with the metallic tang of blood. Theo Nott, who had been watching Draco and Zabini argue worriedly, sprang to his feet and cupped Draco’s head in his hands, eyes roving his face worriedly. 

“Draco…” he breathed in a soft voice. Draco, feverishly gasping for breath, dimly registered this as strange for somebody who barely knew him. 

There was a general flurry around the classroom full of students, all of whom were staring at Draco, as Professor Flitwick came briskly into the room, levitating a tottering pile of NEWT level Charms textbooks. When he saw Draco reeling in his seat, the pile came crashing to the floor. Flitwick ran to him, bending over to feel his face and lifting his wrist to listen to his pulse. Draco could hear blood throbbing weakly in his ears- out of the corner of his darkening vision he made out Zabini, scowling down at the whole scene. Flitwick, small wand raised, muttered a short incantation, twirling his wand and passing it over Draco’s forehead. Miraculously, the agony behind his eyes lessened hugely, and Draco gasped, left with a faint sense of itchiness in the region of his eyelids. 

“A botched jinx- maybe a Headache Hex or a Fever Spell, I can’t be sure,” Professor Flitwick said grimly. “You should be alright now, Mr Malfoy. How are you feeling?”

“Fine,” Draco croaked, and immediately cringed at the vulnerability in his voice. He cleared his throat, glancing at Zabini out of the corner of his eye. “I mean, great, yeah, I’m okay.”

“Did you engage in a duel with anyone today, Mr Malfoy?” Flitwick looked uncharacteristically stern, small hands steepled to his furrowed brow. 

Draco shook his head mutely.

“Well, it could have been an accident… a sparking of magic in a particular moment of emotion or…” Professor Flitwick trailed off, sounding dubious. Draco appreciated his attempt at ignorance. It was obvious; someone had cursed the ex- Death Eater in the hopes he’d bloody well drop dead or at the very least fuck off back to his London flat. Draco was unsurprised. Actually, it was a wonder he didn’t get more of this.

“Maybe, sir,” he replied politely, tone thinly doubtful.

In any case, Flitwick seemed appeased. “Right. Well, if you feel at all dizzy or short of breath, don’t wait around to ask- go straight to the Hospital Wing. However, I think you’ll be fine now.”

“Thanks, Professor,” Draco muttered, still blinking from the slightly strange sensation.

Professor Flitwick flicked his wand, gathering the books into a pile once more, and set them to distributing themselves around the class. Draco winced as a textbook landed with a heavy thump on the wood of his desk. He looked up to see Zabini still glowering at him, newspaper in hand. Draco glared right back, until Zabini stalked to the back of the classroom, throwing himself into an unoccupied chair with an irritating amount of grace. 

_Vulture,_ Draco thought viciously, and then felt guilty. He’d probably feel the same way if he thought someone had said something to get his mother in trouble with the Ministry. God knows a tarnished slate didn’t just wash out— _God and Draco,_ he added bitterly. Because, yeah, Draco knew better than anyone how hard it was to start afresh. Hell- even now, he still wasn’t completely clean, was he? He still had jerks like Zabini accusing him of being deep in the dirty workings of the Ministry. He still had a fucking _brand_ on his left forearm, sinuous black ink threading with his veins, marring the soft skin. A part of him, one that would never scrub off. 

Draco set his shoulders, flicking open the Charms textbook and studiously poring over the introduction. He remained like this for a good few minutes, as the bell rang and two other NEWT students came hastily in, taking their seats and sliding textbooks towards them with looks of mingled weariness and nostalgia. Draco knew what they were thinking; what they were all thinking. Even after a couple of weeks of being back at school, _this_ \- the inimitable routine of school life, was something they’d never take for granted again. Not now that the walls had been torn down, leaving them naked and exposed to the cruel Real World. Not now that their defences had only just begun to creep back up again, to reform. Draco hated them, just a little, for their weakness. He narrowed his eyes and pretended not to feel anything.

 _Malfoys do not pretend, Draco,_ rang the Lucius Voice in his head.

 _Shut the fuck up,_ he told it, ducking his head to the page and immersing himself in the first paragraph.

Draco was jerked out of his reverie by a loud scuffling just outside the classroom. He and the rest of the class looked up as Neville Longbottom, lanky arm looped around one flushed Harry Potter, hobbled into the room. 

Draco’s eyes narrowed. Was that- he blinked. It seemed to defy even Longbottom’s usual level of magical bumbling. But yes- instead of two largeish, slightly pigeon- toed feet sticking out from beneath Longbottom’s robes, there sat, like a great mushroom, what could only be described as a voluminous flipper. Longbottom attempted to stand independently, but his flipper curled unsteadily on the floor, one webbed edge teetering as though weighing up its decision, and then he crashed back into Potter, cheeks pressing together in breathless, thoughtless schoolboy familiarity. Potter’s green eyes were bright behind his glasses, hair untidily rumpled and unapologetically black, so very black that it made his already fair skin seem like snow. He was all clear lines and colours and tangled eyelashes pressing into the lenses of his glasses, one long- fingered hand splayed over the small of Longbottom’s fucking undeserving back, and- 

_Whoa._

Draco cleared his throat, and Potter threw a half- glance at him. It was enough to make his stomach tighten, hopelessly, foolishly. Draco narrowly avoided hiding his face in his hands, stifling the Lucius Voice before it could comment. 

_Malfoys are not gay,_ he assumed it would say haughtily. 

_Yeah, well, you wouldn’t have thought that watching the way you grew out your long bloody tresses like some sort of Disney princess,_ he snapped, and then scowled.

He was so bloody embarrassing.

Flitwick rose from his desk, wand held precisely between his two fingertips. There was a look of amusement on his small, understanding face, and he murmured a spell that curled around the two boys in a swirl of purplish smoke. They emerged, coughing, two seconds later, Longbottom’s flipper successfully restored to two rather disproportionate feet. Idly, Draco wondered if they’d always been so big, or if the spell had enlarged them. 

He was interrupted in his musings for a second time as the boys made their way to their desks- front row like Draco, Longbottom on the far right, Potter in the middle- and Flitwick gestured to their textbooks. They both flipped the Advanced Charms Guide, Grade Seven open to the introduction and began to read, Longbottom fearfully slowly, and Potter with an alert, easy speed that took Draco by surprise. It then dawned on him that perhaps he should not have been watching Longbottom and Potter read- he shook himself, and turned back to his book, feeling the cool waft of air from the window to his left drift over his cheek. In the airy, warm- ish Charms classroom that sat in a little pocket just overlooking a lovely stretch of the Hogwarts grounds, Draco lost himself in the simplicity of black and white print, his wand sitting comfortably in his robes’ right inside pocket. A grounding weight. A reminder that he was safe, that he could relax, and he could learn and just… be. 

***Forty- five minutes later***

“All right, everyone,” Professor Flitwick’s squeaky voice penetrated the thick fog of words pressing against the walls of Draco’s brain, cutting through a haze of ‘quasi- Transfigure’ and ‘Infinity Jinx’ and ‘Reverse Hex Palindrome Theorem’. He sat up, running a hand through his hair and resolutely not looking to his right, where he could picture Potter sitting, relaxed, in his chair, green eyes distracted and long legs splayed. 

“I think we’ll kick off with some light group practical work, seeing as this is only our second class, and we spent the first one doing admin, really, didn’t we?” Flitwick chuckled lightly, and a ripple of agreement went through the class of six.

“Right, well, since we have an even number, I think groups of three…” Flitwick tapped his quill absently against his chin, leaving a tiny smudge of ink on the cleft. 

Draco didn’t need to look right to know that Potter and Longbottom were inching hopefully towards one another. 

“I think we’ll have Miss Bones and Mr Finch- Fletchley and Mr Longbottom.”

Draco heard a faint sound like a deflated balloon coming from the desk to Potter’s right.

“And then,” Professor Flitwick continued breezily, “Mr Zabini, Mr Malfoy and Mr Potter.”

The class moved into action, books being picked up and chairs dragged across the classroom and bags dumped down in different places.

Draco bit his lip, hard, and summoned the steel to turn sneeringly to his right. He opened his mouth, eyes half- lidded, to say something lazy along the lines of, _Want to come here, Potter, or are your poor pretty feet too tired from lugging Longbottom’s great weight around the school?_ But he was left with his mouth gaping open- _like a fish,_ he thought with horror- as he was faced with the sharp glitter from a pair of green eyes that were already staring deeply into his own. It completely disarmed him. The shock of seeing a deep, slow smile carve itself onto Potter’s outrageously full mouth startled Draco back into action, and he tore his eyes away, picking up his bag with an unusual- _and degrading,_ he added- amount of meekness. 

By the time he’d settled himself on Potter’s left, Zabini had come up on his other side. He and Draco scowled across the table at one another, textbook lying forgotten in the middle. Potter was a distractingly warm presence to Draco’s right, flushed cheeks split in a smirk, eyes roving over Draco and Zabini. Draco was pretty sure he had his tie loosened, shirtsleeves pushed up in a way that Draco refused- _refused_ \- to describe as endearing.

 _Really wonderful group I’ve got here,_ Draco thought. _Just bloody fantastic._

“So,” Potter started, and damn, his voice was insouciant. “I guess we should do the practical?”

Zabini looked down at the textbook as though it were something particularly distasteful, expression pinched. Draco couldn’t resist.

“What’s the matter, Zabini? Eat something at breakfast that didn’t agree with your delicate constitution? Want me to send an owl home to mummy? She must be terribly worried about her darling boy, all alone at school with ex _Death Eaters_ who’re in with all the big cheeses at the bloody Ministry.” Draco spat the last few words, and to his shock Potter leant forwards, sharply planed face serious, the outline of it hard and clean. 

“Not here, Malfoy.”

But Draco’s blood was up, suddenly, and he was close to Potter, so close that he fancied he was swallowing down the warm puffs of breath Potter was exhaling, feeding Potter his own air as well.

Was that healthy?

Probably not.

But he was angry, and he didn’t care- something about their proximity made Draco reckless. “Not here? Not _here_ …? Then where, Potter? Where do you want it?” He lowered his voice suggestively, obnoxiously, and leaned in even closer, and then Potter was blushing deeply and drawing back, and a thrill shot down Draco’s spine, a thrill of the sort he’d never felt before. There was something else, too. 

Shock. Shock at Potter’s response. Sure, yeah, it was just a sex reference, right? But to get a blush so very prettily rosy… well, Draco was extra Slytherin- sure he’d struck a chord somewhere.

Zabini curled his lip. “I’ll leave you two adolescents to neck some other time. What are we doing? I’d prefer to get out of this ferret’s general vicinity—” he pointed a long brown finger at Draco “—as soon as I possibly can.”

Draco sat forward, flicking the pages open to the correct number and blocking out Zabini’s voice.

They were practicing Lucidity Charms, simple enough, but requiring a basic level of calm and mental control that Draco was dubious as to any of them possessing at the present time. Indeed, across the room, Longbottom, Bones and Finch- Fletchley seemed to be having better luck, all of them staying remarkably clear- headed after casting Confundus Charms and Tipsy Jinxes on each other.

Draco gritted his teeth and picked up his wand, attempting to calm himself. 

_“Lucidus,”_ he tried, waving his wand over himself. Quickly, Potter withdrew his wand from his robe pocket- cheeks still a pale pink- and cast, _“Ebrius,”_ voice low and gravelly.

Unsurprisingly, Draco immediately felt bloody drunk, legs weak and head so light he felt as though he were floating.

“Didn’ work,” he mumbled incoherently to his shoes, swaying on the spot.

Potter sighed, a sound that curled into Draco’s ears, tucking into every cranny of his brain and filling him up. He closed his eyes. Potter coughed, and he opened them to see curious green, green, green looking at him as though he were mad.

Draco giggled feebly, and Flitwick passing, muttered a Sobriety Charm in his direction.

The light-headedness was leeched out of his bones, leaving him tired and blue, veritably navy blue. He inclined his head towards Zabini.

“Potter, be a darling and tell Zabini it’s his turn.”

Potter clenched his jaw. “Stop being a bloody child, Malfoy,” he shot back, but turned almost beseechingly to Zabini anyway.

To Draco’s amazement, Zabini got up from where he was sitting on the desk with a minimum of bitterness, long trousered legs neatly uncrossing at the ankles. With a conciliatory look at Potter, Zabini drew his slim wand from his robes and flicked it over himself. 

_“Lucidus.”_ His voice was smooth and even, and Draco knew instinctively his Lucidity Charm was perfect. 

_“Confundus,”_ Draco said in a bored tone.

Zabini smirked, clearly not Confunded in the slightest.

Potter sighed, and Zabini looked…. _chastened_ , Draco thought in bewilderment. 

He looked between the other two boys, completely failing at nonchalance when he drawled, “So… you two been getting cosy over the summer? Don’t want to upset your boyfriend, Zabini?” 

It was weak at best, but Potter swallowed and stepped back, and Zabini scowled in an angry- supermodel sort of way.

Draco leaned in, voice whittling to a chummy whisper. “Zabini, mate, I always knew you’d be the woman in any relationship.”

Zabini looked murderous, but he stayed where he was, throwing a glance at Potter. It infuriated Draco, whatever this secret thing was between them, and he swallowed hard, chewing on solid, writhing jealousy.

“Got it down to a science, have you, Potter? Tell me… how long did it take you to get him whipped? Not long, I imagine… all the boys are just _longing_ to do anything for you, aren’t they? It took Weasley about two weeks until he was kissing your golden boots." Draco made his voice soft, commiserating. "Oh, how does Granger feel about that?”

He stepped closer, breath gentle on Potter’s cheekbone.

“Knowing her boyfriend has a boy… crush?”

Potter raised his dark head, eyes seething.

“All the boys’re just longing to do anything for me, yeah? That includes you, does it, Malfoy?”

He tilted the half- inch forward to Draco’s left ear, voice a sensuous brush on his jawbone, his earlobe, his temple…

“Been dreaming of me … _Draco_?”

Draco recoiled, snatching up his bag, paranoia thumping, churning in his stomach, boiling up to seep into the tissue of his brain. 

_HecantknowhedoesntknowItsimpossibleItsimpossibleItsimpossible._

Draco strode out of the classroom, brushing past Finch- Fletchley, who was stumbling around in a drunken stupor, fourth Lucidity Charm apparently too weak. He did not look back, not when Professor Flitwick called after him, not when the door slammed, and not when vicious green eyes burned in his memory.

Not once.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thoughts?


	4. 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A sleepless night, drunken encounter and deathly boring class drive Draco to the conclusion of what to do next.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry I took ages! I needed to sort out some key plot points, because this chapter lays the groundwork for a lot of stuff, and I wanted it to be all there and good. Also, like, it's been One Direction's ten year anniversary, soooo... that's definitely an excuse I'm going to use. Anyway, have fun! It's actually just a little longer than usual, so I guess that's good. Um, also, the last sentence is cheesy as fuck, so sorry about that.

***Slytherin Boys Dormitories***

The pale first light of the new morning filtered down through the blackish water of the lake, streaming in dappled droves through the glass windows of the Slytherin dorms. The air was fusty with dust mites, and the heavy coverlets had been shucked, consciously or not, by most boys to tangle around their pyjama- clad legs. The sound of gentle breathing slid around Draco, insinuating itself in the space between his ears, already crammed full of the vivid memory of Potter leaning close, thick hair- _so fucking soft,_ Draco remembered helplessly- whispering over his ear. Days had gone by, and Draco had been normal. Steadfastly normal. Nothing had changed, not that he knew of, anyway, and if he resolutely didn’t look when a certain scruffy dark head ducked into the hallways, well- who’d noticed?

Truthfully, Draco was tired. Being a pariah was surprisingly exhausting- avoiding people’s eyes, swerving out of the way in hallways, not _talking_ to anyone, really, about anything. What was more, he was tired of pretending he didn’t care about the writing on the Quidditch shower wall. He did care, couldn’t sleep for caring, and he couldn’t be rid of the obsession until he knew who’d been scratching away replies to him.

Draco shifted under the covers, his mind drifting unerringly back to his most recent visit to the showers

In an attempt to wean himself off the addictive- and he was fairly sure, illegal- act of graffiti, Draco had gone into the shower stall to the right of his usual one. Remington, the oblivious wretch, had slid into the stall with the lyrics on the wall, and so Draco had stewed quietly, gritting his teeth the entire shower long, unable to relax under the hot spray of water. He’d listened obsessively to Remington in his stall, enduring the wavering bursts of impromptu song that slid in like demons under the door. And then, like the lost cause he was, he had waited for Remington to get out, listening for the wet slap of feet against tiles to fade away, and Draco had scrambled into his rightful stall, cricking his neck in his haste to turn to the wall with the writing on it. The rush of pure adrenaline at the sight of the new lines, the purr of a hope fulfilled had been good. But the scratching of his own replying words, burned a deep, irrefutable black, had given him a thick feeling of satisfaction in his belly that was even better. The other person had gotten to- what, somewhere in the second verse?

_‘I’ve got big dreams in my mind,_

_I would give up my whole life for that feeling.’_

Draco had grabbed his wand, wood slick under his scrabbling fingers, and looped an eager cursive reply, lyrics flowing out of him as easy as breathing, like just turning a tap on and allowing words to stream out.

_‘No, I don't mind_

_If I lose my legs or die.’_

He’d set his wand down, trying to hold onto the contentment fast dissipating in his stomach, trying to ignore the gnawing feeling on the edge of his happiness, the one that made warning bells start flashing in his head. The one that told him this wasn’t enough anymore. After all, when Draco had started this shit, he’d been lonely as fuck, and desperate. He’d had no expectations. Seeing the response had been like giving a starving person food. But after a while… the person’s appetite is bound to increase. He tried not to think about the fact that maybe this wasn’t sating his newfound desire for… something, god, whatever the hell this was.

Draco rolled over with a groan, covers ruched at his waist. He pillowed his head on his arms and lay, hair mussed, breathing slowly, trying to get some sleep. The lingering memory of Potter’s fucking breath on his neck ghosted down his spine, a teasing brush, and he swallowed roughly. Somehow, he seriously doubted he’d be sleeping even a tiny bit that night. 

**********************************************************************************  
***School Corridor***

The walls whispered at Draco, blurring and curling in and giggling with him, as though they shared a schoolgirl secret. 

_Hello,_ he thought dreamily, _hellohellohello._

They smiled back, friendly pockmarks between bricks like a million sunshiny dimples. Black flowers ghosted around Draco, and the air billowed at him. He blinked.

Okay, so maybe he was a little drunk- but hey, perks of being an eighth year. 

The hallway sharpened a little around him, and the black flowers revealed themselves as students, black robes fluttering behind them as they whisked to lessons. Draco stumbled, grinned foolishly, and shouldered his bag. He’d just had a free period, and had spent it swigging from the secret stash of Firewhisky in the eighth- year Slytherin dorms. He’d just about reached a pleasant state of detachment from the world, where he was aware of the things around him but couldn’t find it in himself to care particularly about any of those things.

 _Marvellous thing, alcohol,_ Draco reflected peaceably.

He was on his way to Muggle Studies, that much he knew. It was com… complimentary? 

_Compulsory,_ he thought slowly.

It was compulsory this year, what with the raging prejudice that had sparked a war.

 _And all that crap,_ Draco thought uncharitably, and then felt bad. It wasn’t crap; not the theory, at least. The lessons… well, the lessons would bore even a Niffler with a grain of sense.

Anyway, he certain he was going to Muggle Studies. The way there, however… he was not certain of.

Draco wobbled a bit, and giggled. He figured he was maybe an annoying drunk, but he was also a fucking Slytherin and he wanted respect. He pounded his chest with a lean fist, glaring at a small Ravenclaw girl who scuttled past with a frightened start. 

The hallway had narrowed considerably by now- Draco double checked to make sure the walls weren’t just fucked up from the alcohol, and just about ascertained that it was not the Firewhisky. That meant he’d gone too far. The corridor was wider at the beginning- he should go back. He turned, swaying alarmingly, and spotted a smallish wooden door set in a deep cranny in the wall, almost at the beginning of the hallway. 

_Definitely Muggle Studies,_ he thought to himself. _Definitely._

He staggered to the door, lurching when he reached the handle so that his full weight, combined with the heavy mass of books in his back, fell directly onto the door. It swung open at blinding speed, crashing into the musty interior wall, and Draco fell bruisingly hard on his hands and knees, staring at the unmistakeable floor of-

A broom cupboard.

There was a loud, indignant yell, quickly followed by a bout of frantic shuffling and snickering.

Draco looked up woozily, hair falling over his eyes, to see a blushing Finnigan standing before him, hands busy at his belt. He was on the very left of the small space, obviously having leapt away from… whoever was beside him. Draco turned his head woozily, vision refocusing just enough to make out a horribly familiar pair of green eyes, staring-

He blinked.

_PotterPotterPotterPotterPotter._

All the usual sirens were blaring in his head; plus a good few extra, less usual ones. 

_Oh,_ he thought hysterically, _Oh, look. Hello, Arousal, Confusion, Contempt._

_Jealousy? Haven’t seen you in a long time, mate._

Intoxicated as he was, even Draco could tell what he’d stumbled into. He gaped up at them, a hard lump of something sticking in his throat that he could not seem to speak around. He did not look at Potter. His pulse thrummed frantically in his ears, and one thought was slamming itself repeatedly into the walls of his brain.

_Potter was gay?_

Draco's mouth was dry; he ran his tongue over his lips in shock, taking in the scene before him. 

Finnigan’s trousers were loose around his hips, evidently hastily pulled up, and his hair was a mess, as though there had been hands carded through it quite roughly, running against the direction of the gel that had been stroked into it. His greyish- blue eyes were sheepish, and there was a firm glint in them that was… a little challenging. Or were they even-

Mocking?

Draco’s head began to throb fiercely.

“I—” he began eloquently, only to break off with a hitch in his breath. He curled his lip on reflex, only just escaping biting his lip like a child.

Potter snorted, and Draco turned his neck to look at him so fast he almost gave himself whiplash.

“What? _What?_ ” he said, maybe a bit too viciously, but why the fuck not? The complete and utter shock from Potter's recent leaping out of the closet harshened his words even more, and they were like knives in the quiet of the cupboard.

Potter was flushed, a little damp with sweat. His charcoal hair had curled at his temples from the humidity, and there was a small, perfect ringlet just over his right ear. Draco had a sudden, powerful urge to put his pinky through it.

“Only you, Malfoy,” Potter said sardonically, and Draco nearly choked from the hypocrisy of the situation.

“I’m sorry, Potty, am I the one standing in a bloody broom cupboard with this knob, —” 

Finnigan broke in with an angry, “hey!” which Draco completely ignored, “— looking like I’ve just gone a round with a pissed- off Skrewt, and my trousers basically down around my _remarkably_ hairy ankles?” 

Potter’s eyes flickered unmistakeably down to his ankles- which weren’t exposed at all; Draco had been exaggerating, and really, was that look of hurt on his face _necessary?_ Salazar, they’d been doing this for years! And now Potter was wounded? Draco swallowed the liquid remorse trickling like a bitter river down his throat. 

No.

 _Don’t buckle, Draco,_ he thought frustratedly.

“No? I didn’t think so. So I would say,” and Draco leant forward, drunkenness leaching out of him as though he’d never had anything at all, “that you should maybe shut your trap about things regarding ‘only me’.”

Potter’s expression became cold. His breath was coming slightly more evenly now, but he was no less flushed, and his jaw was a hard, smooth line.

 _When the bloody hell did Potter lose his baby fat?_ Draco thought randomly. A sudden mental image of the dark- haired boy facing off against Draco in Malfoy Manor flashed into his mind. His cheeks had been stubbled, yeah, but they had retained some boyish roundness. Now… that was gone, along with the stubble. There was only a sharp line of skin, pure and unmarred in its stubborn set. 

_It suits him,_ Draco thought stupidly. 

But it _did_ , the clean lines of Potter’s neck and chin contrasting with the thick, curling mass of his raven hair, which had been unfashionably shaggy in Malfoy Manor, but now it was definitely not… lost in thought, Draco was snapped back into reality by Potter’s acerbic tone.

“I don’t think I will, Malfoy. What I meant was only you, the oblivious, snooty as fuck _Lord Malfoy_ would fall on his face, clearly far drunker than anyone has any right to be before second bloody period, into what’s clearly a hookup, and _curl his lip_.”

Finnigan made a small sound that Draco couldn’t be bothered to decipher.

Potter smirked.

Draco didn’t need to decipher that.

He got slowly to his feet, back straight despite the throbbing of his head. “What’s that supposed to mean? Look, I’m sorry if your daytime dalliances disgust me, Potter and that hurts your feelings, but—”

“That’s not the point, Malfoy.” Potter just looked entertained now, and it make Draco’s blood boil, because wasn’t he supposed to have the power here? _He_ was the one who'd just fucking... outed Potter. Hadn't he? Or had Potter been... obvious?

The realisation crept up on Draco like a shadow, thickening into something very real and frightening. Had everyone else known except Draco?

Had Potter in fact been... _out?_

Potter's voice split into his thoughts, sarcasm dripping like soured honey from his words. “The point is that it’s like you’ve never seen something like this before. You’re blushing so hard you might as well be a first year ’Puff.”

_What. The. Actual._

_Fuck._

How dare he?

A _Hufflepuff_?

And he wasn’t _blushing,_ for Salazar’s sake. 

Draco fought the urge to feel his cheeks.

Was he?

Draco took a deep breath in, trying not to just lose it and hit Potter. A particularly inviting expanse of pale skin, exposed by Potter’s loosened tie and open collar, beckoned him. Draco wanted to bruise it, maybe throw a punch or a jinx, or just _bite—_

Oh, bloody hell.

He swayed suddenly, sharp words melting like snowflakes on his lips, burned up by the heat of his skin. He swallowed, pressing a hand to his forehead.

Perhaps he should have laid off the Firewhisky a bit earlier.

There was a sigh from somewhere in front of him that gusted past Draco’s ears, and then came the familiar, characteristic sucking feeling that came only from a Sobriety Charm.

Draco glanced up, eyelids heavy, to see Potter tucking his wand back into the slack waistband of his trousers. Several lewd things came to mind, but he brushed them off, instead opting to duck his head, staring resolutely at his shoes. Now that his head was completely clear, Draco realised just how drunk he’d been. Silence yawned like a fat, awkward cavern.

Well, that just ruined everything. Trust fucking Potter to have a Saviour complex big enough to actually encompass Draco. It made him want to retch, and cry, and write about seven more letters to Pansy, because his cursive was getting sloppy. Lucius would not approve.

Potter straightened his white shirt, rumpled as it was, and a stray tendril of hair like ebony silk brushed the cotton collar, curling above it. The bare skin of his neck, pulse unblemished and creamy, was so vulnerable that Draco looked away, at Finnigan, which also turned out to be a mistake, as the stupid bloody Irishman was looking at Potter with this endeared little smile on his face, and Draco could feel his blood-- free of alcohol and renewed in vigour-- rush to his head. He clenched his jaw, looked back at Potter, staring him straight in the eye.

“I don’t need your fucking charity, Golden Boy.” His voice was rough, raspy, and he saw Potter visibly inhale, this sharp little breath that Draco just kind of maybe wanted to press deep into his mouth, imprint on his skin.

“Right. I forgot.” Potter stared right back at him. There was a certain passion alive in his eyes-- _bloody hell, how can this boy have eyes that are literally pools of fucking fathomless green?_ Draco thought infuriatedly-- that, even though it was angry, made Draco’s eyebrows flick together for a second, his breath to still, before he got a grip.

“You don’t need anyone’s help, do you, Malfoy? You’re invincible, untouchable, never deign to ask anyone for anything.” 

Draco blinked. Where was he going with this? Because, at the moment, it sounded a whole lot like a big fat-- admittedly rather Slytherin- style-- compliment.

Potter stepped in, nose to nose with Draco, lips deliberately shaping their next words, so precise and thoughtlessly mesmerising that Draco found himself watching their movement, and it was due to this that when he actually started to pay attention to what Potter was saying, he had a hugely delayed reaction to it.

“But then, we mustn’t forget the only exception to your admirable independence, must we? Of course, that was when your life fucking depended on it, so I s’pose you didn’t mind asking for my charity then. You remember, Malfoy? Your hand, slipping over mine, and then you yelled- do I have it right? Correct me if I’m mistaken; I would never dream of saying anything except the honest truth to you. You said, _‘Potter. Potter, please, fuck. Harry, Harry, Harry.’_ ” Potter bobbed his head in time to the sound of his name, mouth pinched as though he was tasting something sour. But for all his seeming distaste in being so underhand, Draco could see through it. There was victory, sweet vindictiveness in Potter’s eyes, and Draco couldn’t look away.

“If I had even a shred of respect for you, I think I might actually have been turned on. You remember that, Malfoy?”

And Draco’s mouth slipped open a tiny bit, as he watched Potter reliving it. His green eyes were glossy, and Draco had never been more confused. The echo of Potter’s rough, sensuous voice saying _‘Harry, Harry, Harry,’_ rippled over him, and he wondered briefly what his own name would sound like on those lips, in that sinful tone. But then he was jerked out of his reverie by the screaming knowledge of just what exactly Potter had been talking about.

It hit him like the Hogwarts Express; the memory of searing flame licking high just below him, waves of intense heat rolling up and soaking his shirt with sweat, pasting his hair to the nape of his neck. Hands like vices around whatever pieces of crap he could find a grip on; fingers sliding and straining, hauling himself higher on the precarious tower of rubbish collected in that accursed Room. Potter, a sleek, dark- haired arrow, soaring towards him, bent low over the broom. His eyes had burned into Draco’s, and even with unadulterated terror pounding through his veins Draco had been arrested by their intensity. He’d reached a hand up, clawing at the hot, thick air, fear a tangible taste in the very breaths he drew in. 

But he hadn’t begged, had he?

Draco racked his brain, searching for the sound of his hoarse voice, and, oh.

_Shit._

He had begged. No, never mind begged, he’d pleaded with Potter to save him. Merlin, he’d called him _Harry_. Draco tried to rationalise it, tried to remind himself of the stress of a situation like that-

But when it came down to it, Draco Malfoy had begged.

He tried to form words, to defend himself against the incredibly low blow, because no matter the animosity between the two of them Draco had always thought Potter was too noble to ever mention that day.

 _Suppose I was wrong,_ he thought numbly.

 _And fair play to him,_ Draco tried to reason, but he couldn’t shake a cold, leaden feeling of betrayal, sitting like a waterlogged corpse in his stomach.

“Well, Potter.” His voice was weak.

 _So very weak,_ the Lucius Voice murmured disappointedly, and, oh goody, it was back, and Draco would not be maudlin, not with his father’s voice in his head.

“Suppose you found your balls. I could have helped with that, but looks like Finnigan here was doing a good enough job on his own.” He tossed Finnigan a cruel smirk, savoured the clench of the Irish boy’s jaw.

“Don’t get too attached, mate. Weasley’s had the hots for him since first year, and god knows the poor bloke’s been given the cold shoulder enough times to freeze a person solid.” He shook his head mockingly, inclining his head towards Potter. “Not too sentimental, this one.”

Finnigan looked like he wanted to reply, but then Potter lunged, completely out of the blue, and Finnigan was holding him back, and _Sweet Christ_ this entire exchange had been so fucking bizarre, and why was Draco turned on? 

Salazar.

Draco backed out of the broom cupboard, smiling thinly at Potter’s feral expression as he hurled himself towards Draco again and again, held back only by Finnigan, who was remarkably broader than he had been before the summer.

 _Maybe that’s why Potter…_ Draco began to think, and then banged the lid on that thought so hard that the mental reverberations made him a little dizzy.

He nodded towards the two boys, a struggling mass, and with a parting shot of, “good luck, Finnigan, mate, looks like I’ve spiced him up for you a little- you’re welcome, by the way,” accompanied by a malicious wink, he closed the door to the broom cupboard and pulled his bag back over his shoulder.

 _Right,_ he thought. _Muggle Studies._

Potter was gay.

Muggle Studies.

**********************************************************************************

Muggle Studies was really fucking boring.

And yeah, call Draco a classic prejudiced pure- blood, but Muggles were giant idiots.

Like, what in Salazar’s evil fucking name is a Segway? Why would anyone voluntarily put themselves on a contraption that has wheels and speeds along at a breakneck pace but _doesn’t even go in the air_?

Moronic.

It also did not help that the classroom was packed with students, unlike most of Draco’s other NEWT classes, and it was horribly hot, the air stifling and unpleasant. Draco had been put near the back- advantage of having a surname starting with ‘M’, but unfortunately ‘M’ was also very close to ‘P’, and with that came issues.

Namely, Potter.

Now, Draco didn’t want to seem fixated on one bloody annoying Saviour, so he thought it important to note that the Patil twins were also doing a fair bit to irritate him. They kept giggling, high, shrill shrieks echoing forwards and piercing Draco’s ears down to the very tissue of his brain. His peace of mind was so severely perturbed by the time they decided to shut up and work that he had to keep reading sentences over and over as their meaning steadily diminished, until he had no idea what he was learning about. 

However, this was nothing to Potter.

While the textbooks were being handed out, Potter sneezed.

Like, really?

Couldn’t the Golden Boy make the effort to buy a handkerchief or did he just assume that since he saved the wizarding world- _and,_ Draco added disapprovingly, _let’s be real, Granger actually did most of it for him_ —the rest of the class would be just fine and dandy with him spreading his germs everywhere?

As if this wasn’t crime enough, while Professor Mancie- a new addition to the staff, and a woman with an infuriating perpetual smile on her face- was explaining in detail the various functions of Muggle public transport, Potter leaned back on the hind legs of his chair, head tipped back indolently, and yawned widely.

Draco thought it was obnoxious behaviour, and he had a good mind to tell Potter so.

Just because the bloody class was boring- everybody else was bearing it, weren’t they? But Scarhead thought that, just because he was- or he _used_ to be- the fucking Chosen One, he could just blatantly not pay attention.

What was worse, all Draco’s smitten classmates were licking it up.

Lavender Brown, a simpering smile fixed upon her silly face, smiled back at Potter from near the front of the classroom, and sent a paper aeroplane fluttering towards him, scribbled over with a stupid little note in her feminine cursive. Potter unfolded the thing and read the message quickly, green eyes alive with humour, and he sent Brown this bright, secret grin as though they were in on a big hushed up piece of news.

Not to be petty, but Draco had sent Potter a paper aeroplane in third year.

…It wasn’t that that Draco cared.

The illustration had been charmed, and everything.

\- he hadn’t been bothered about it, though.

Yeah, the Animation charm was, like, really old and difficult, and yeah, he’d spent ages looking it up in the library, but who said that meant he gave a toss?

Not Draco.

Weasley, at least, seemed to be having as miserable a time as Draco. He was sitting at the far back of the class-- _‘W’ for Weasley,_ Draco thought with relish-- looking sullenly at Granger, who was engaged in lively conversation with a brown- haired Ravenclaw who Draco was pretty sure was called Bookly. Finn Bookly. No wonder Granger was so interested in him.

A particularly loud laugh of Granger’s, prompted undoubtedly by Bookly, who was blushing fiercely, made Weasley emit a sort of wounded noise that sounded a bit like a pained Kneazle. 

_And really,_ Draco thought offhandedly, _why was Weasley being so uptight? Bookly wasn’t even that good looking. Granted, Granger had settled for Weasley, which, well… could one even say she had any standards? But still- look at the nose on that boy!_

Granger turned to look back at her boyfriend- Draco gagged mentally- whereupon Weasley straightened, forced a smile, and nodded at her nonchalantly. She beamed back, and turned obliviously back towards the unfortunate Bookly, who was completely unaware that his chances of being hit by a Conjunctivitis Curse in the immediate future were rising exponentially every second. Draco watched first amusedly, and then wearily as Weasley shifted right, then left, and, looking desperately around for someone upon whom to relieve his feelings, landed his gaze on Malfoy. His jealous expression shifted to one of ugly vindication, and Draco knew he was about to bear the brunt of Weasley’s slights. Not for the first time, he cursed the fact that Granger, who had seemed like a hopeless case in first year with her buckteeth and bushy hair, had discovered how to skilfully- he had to admit- make use of her feminine wiles. Most of the boys had fucking crushes on her now.

 _Maybe Potter_ — Draco started, then broke off mentally, berating himself for starting that up again.

He turned back to his work, and tried to ignore Weasley’s angry brown eyes on his back. Draco hoped, hoped so hard he thought his heart would shrivel from the force, that Weasley would let it go. He didn’t need one of the Golden Trio publicly ribbing him. They were like the alpha wolves to this pack of sheep. Once they did something, you could be sure everybody else would follow suit, even in the case of Weasley, who, in Draco’s opinion, had no more brains than the common mountain troll.

It was, however, futile. While Professor Mancie had her curly head down, writing something on a student’s work, Draco felt something light hit the back of his head. He turned; a hastily scrunched paper ball lay on the floor behind his chair. He looked up, and there was the ginger wonder, looking at him like a spoilt toddler about to poke a snail with a stick. Weasley had no idea what he was doing- Draco was tired, bored, and frustrated. The Weasel would be lucky if he escaped a Furnunculus Curse to the left eye.

Weasley opened his mouth, a mulish smile playing around his lips. Draco braced himself, looking back at him coldly. Just as he was sure something idiotic was going to come out of the Weasel’s mouth, a lazy voice came from behind Draco.

“Ron, mate, what’d you think about the second question?”

Draco knew that voice, and he swore inwardly, turning back around to face his work. Sure enough, out of his peripheral vision he could see a pale face, dark hair framing it, tilted towards Weasley in languid interest. The ginger replied uncharacteristically quietly, voice fond and head bent to Potter’s, and Draco found he didn’t want to listen in on their conversation. The sight of the reddish-orange and dark hair tipped earnestly together in a quick, thoughtless exchange made something in Draco’s stomach curdle. He stared down determinedly, trying in vain not to think of Potter, incredulous and argumentative outside the Owlery; Potter, cold and sharp in Charms class; Potter, flushed, dishevelled, hurling himself towards Draco in a tiny broom cupboard with Finnigan’s arms around him.

Potter, Potter, Potter.

His head whirled with an indistinct mixture of poignant green eyes, alive and sharp and deep as wells, and black scrawls of writing burned onto a glistening wall. Irrefutable. Raven hair, curling with sweat and lyrics just teetering on the edge of painful. Pale smooth skin and hot water and white tiles and blushes.

 _Fuck,_ Draco thought. He felt stuck, unable to move forward or think around the maelstrom in his head. It expanded with every breath, taking up every single brain cell until he couldn’t imagine thinking of anything different.

This was too much. This confusion was too much, not knowing was too much.

And so, as Draco reread the textbook page for the fiftieth time, he decided something crucial.

He needed a plan.

And then? He was going to find out who the fucking mysterious writer was. Anonymity was all very well, but Draco had had his fill of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comment what you guys thought... I wrote literally all of this in the very early hours of the morning, so there's a solid chance it's crap. Tell me if it's crap- I'm cool with feedback :) I also have very thick skin. Like a seal.  
> By the way, I'm working on a oneshot at the moment so the next update might take quite a bit longer than usual


	5. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's been so long since I updated this fic. Honestly, I've been working so hard at the other fic and school and exams, I've hardly had any time. But I've managed to write- scrambled up in the dark watches of the night- some semblance of a chapter? It's nothing huge, not much action. But just some continuance, to keep the juices flowing. I must say, it felt so lovely to come back and work on this.

_Cold. He was cold all over, shivers wracking his body and twitches reverberating around his bones. His teeth chattered sporadically, powerfully clanking together every few seconds, and he felt sweaty, strangled. There was something cool beneath his cheek- it was like an anchor, keeping him tethered to the world. He resented it a little for that; he was in so much pain, he realised dimly, that he wanted to float off into the lingering unknown, the great sweet nothingness of the space above him. Draco tried to let go, but his body clung to reality, and the deep ache in his bones made him swallow roughly, blink a little._

_His vision cleared up just enough for him to raise his cheek- mashed against the cold thing beneath him- an inch upwards. He choked in a breath, the muscles in his neck cramping agonisingly. His hair was clinging to his forehead; Draco had always thought he looked horribly unrefined with the blonde strands falling over his eyes, and he reached up instinctually to sweep the sweaty mess back over his head, not because he particularly cared about his appearance at that exact moment but out of habit. A sudden, laser-like pain in the joint between his right arm and shoulder arrested the movement- he groaned weakly, let the limb collapse back down, and shook his head minutely, trying to regain some clarity. Vaguely, he felt a pool of unpleasant, sticky moisture on his cheek and realised he’d been drooling. Draco moaned in pain, shifted onto his side, and opened his eyes from where they were squeezed shut in discomfort. A long, black expanse stretched out in front of him; marble tiles, and he recognised with a jolt the floor of Malfoy Manor. The huge main room, furniture pushed carelessly to the sides, half- covered roughly with dirty sheets and speckled with dark spots. The tiles gleamed dully, dark light reflecting in their surfaces._

_Draco was lying somewhere in the centre of the room, facing the great, dusty windows. Nobody was in front of him, but he could hear dull noise echoing from behind him. Rustlings and whisperings and the occasional shrill giggle. Draco flinched, tried to turn, but couldn’t. However, his movement was apparently noticeable enough, as there was a flurry of mutters, and then he heard a soft stroking on the stone behind him, as though someone- or something – was coming towards him. But it was strange, he thought clumsily- the sound never let up. If a person were walking to him, there would be, like, silence alternating with sound because they’d take their feet off the tiles. He couldn’t articulate the thought, but the constant, sinuous stroking of whatever it was over the tiles made him feel sick. That was not a person._

_Sure enough, when Draco half- turned his head, tongue thick and slow in his mouth, to say “hello?” he was greeted only by a screeching laugh that sounded female, and a hiss that made him shudder painfully. The only thing he could see was the ceiling of the room, plastered thickly in creamy white, paint chipping a little on the delicate sculpting of the upper wainscoting. He lay there, helpless, unable to move, as the thing, whatever it was, came slowly towards him, and he could feel it’s malice, not personal, but aimed at anything it could get its hands on. Fear began to trickle into his bloodstream, speeding his laboured heartbeat, making his ragged breath deepen and hitch uncontrollably, His chest heaved- he reached a hand out in front of him, unable to see behind him, at what was coming at him, and a lone tear wove its way down his cheek, dewing his lip and faintly salting his tongue._

_A long, cold stroke of fucking something grazed over his back; he realised his shirt had dragged upwards, and the thing had just slid right by his back. It felt… scaly, reptilian frigidity sending ripples of goosebumps along the vulnerable skin of his lower back. Draco gasped, trying to keep it together. His hand, weak and fumbling, felt around his hip, his pockets… was he even wearing robes over his clothes? He searched for the feel of raw wood under his fingertips, a grooved handle, the tapered tip. But… nothing. Where was his wand?_

_And then Draco remembered everything._

**********************************************************************************

***Slytherin dorms***

“Draco. Draco, get up. Come _on_ , get up! We’ll be late for breakfast again, and I smell kippers.”

Draco mumbled incoherently into his pillow.

“Get up, you git. You know I love kippers.”

“Wha-?” Draco said sleepily. He opened his eyes a half- inch, brain processing everything that had just been said, and then his eyes flew open with a jolt, and he sat up immediately. There was a yelp just to his right, as though somebody had sprang away from his bed quickly.

“Pansy?” He said excitedly. “You here?”

There was a cough from just beside him. Draco looked to his right to see Theo Nott standing back, blushing slightly and shifting nervously from side to side.

“I, um…” Draco tailed off, confusion thickening his voice. He cleared his throat.

“Pansy was here,” he said confidently. “Where’d she go?”

Theo looked stumped for a second, and then scrambled to say, “She wasn’t here, Draco.”

“Yes, she was,” Draco fought, but even as he said it he realised it was the middle of term. There was no way she could have been here.

“But she… someone said they liked- uh, kippers? Pansy- that was her favourite… and they called me a git. She always said I was a git.” he said sadly.

Theo shook his head. “Maybe you dreamed it?” he suggested tentatively.

Draco nodded, disappointment welling in his throat, which was ridiculous, really, because Pansy had never been here, he hadn’t been expecting her, and he’d only thought she was here for about two seconds.

Still, it was with a weary rake of his hand through his hair that he swung his legs out of bed, and started to unbutton his pyjama shirt. He pulled his school shirt on, fingers moving rapidly as he slipped the bone buttons through the slits with nimble movements. But as Draco went to step out of his pyjama bottoms, Theo squeaked.

Draco looked up.

The other boy flushed, pinkish colour spreading down his neck and disappearing under his jumper. It was a very noticeable tinge on his lily- white skin, and Draco raised his eyebrows.

“Alright?”

Theo looked down at himself, and the lurid blush, and his eyes flickered upwards for a second, as though he were rolling his eyes. But then his gaze returned to Draco, and he nodded quickly, Adam’s Apple bobbing so furiously it looked uncomfortable. He opened his mouth, took a breath in, shut it again, and then said hastily, “I think I’ll just wait outside.”

Draco cocked his head. “Okay,” he replied bemusedly.

Theo turned jerkily, walking speedily to the door and darting through it without looking back. Draco continued getting dressed with a shake of his head.

Really, Theo Nott was a strange boy.

**********************************************************************************

*The Great Hall*

Smells from various tempting looking platters wafted under Draco’s nose, and he sniffed happily, straggling fatigue scared away by the fat pyramid of perfectly cooked sausages sitting porkily under his nose. He speared one with a sharp fork, taut skin puncturing smartly and metal sinking deep into the tender meat. 

‘ _Aaah,_ ’ he thought contentedly, ‘ _this is the life._ ’

And then Blaise Zabini slammed himself down opposite Draco, excessively groomed quiff slickly gleaming in the soft breakfasting light. Draco groaned internally, resting the sausage down on his plate. He looked at it wistfully for a moment, and then turned his attention to the seething boy sitting before him. 

“Yes?” He said politely.

“Don’t act all innocent, Malfoy, Salazar knows you’re not that,” Zabini spat, dark eyes hot.

Draco sighed. “Look, Zabini, I don’t know what it is you think I’ve done—”

“Bullshit,” Zabini cut in. “I told you the other week.”

“Alright, I stand corrected. I do know what it is you think I’ve done, but I can categorically say that I haven’t done it. I haven’t been in contact with the Ministry since…” Draco paused. “Since my father…”

“Bit the dust, yeah,” Zabini said, and rolled his eyes. “God, I’m tearing up, Malfoy. You and your fucking sob story.”

Draco exhaled amusedly. “Just telling you the facts, my liege.”

“I don’t want the facts.” Zabini leaned in, and Draco resisted the urge to make a sarcastic comment about what did he want then. But Zabini wasn’t done, long fingered hands clenching on the table as though he were physically struggling not to punch Draco.

“I want to know why you ratted in my mother to the Ministry!”

Draco stood up. “I _didn’t_!”

“Well who did then? Who else was in with the fucking psychotic mask- wearers so much he became one of them?”

And that stung- not that Draco was going to show Zabini that- but yeah, it hurt a bit. Because Draco wasn’t like the other Slytherin kids, children who were brainwashed at worst; victims of circumstance in a pinch. He had gone the extra step. He couldn’t be counted as a kid, or someone who was just born into the wrong family. He hadn’t been a passive bystander in the war.

He’d fucking invited the Death Eaters into the castle. He’d been instructed to _kill Albus Dumbledore_ , and on multiple occasions he’d attempted to do so. 

“S’pose it runs in the family, doesn’t it?” Zabini needled. “You Malfoys like to play the game, but you don’t fucking know when to stop. You just fall right over the line. And the worst part? You drag everybody else down with you.”

Draco clenched his jaw, a muscle working near the bone. He stared Zabini down. If this had been a Gryffindor, or for that matter, anybody not in Slytherin, they’d have been on the ground clutching a vital body part by now, but the Snakes had a code of honour between themselves. They tried not to turn on each other. Even so, there were other unspoken rules. Rules about family, and respect towards other people’s relatives, distant or not. In pureblood world, birth and loyalty were everything, and the family name was not to be trifled with.

“Watch it, Zabini.” Draco pushed his plate away from him, hand slipping under the table to rest softly on the handle of his wand, tucked firmly in his robes. Zabini’s eyes followed the movement, and he stiffened, jaw working for a minute, and then the other boy took a deep breath, long legs stepping easily out from behind the bench. He turned to go, then looked over his shoulder, brown eyes reckless.

“Just something to think about.” 

And he strode out of the Hall, along with the dying shrieks of Draco’s good mood.

**********************************************************************************

The common room was cold, last embers of the fire sputtering and glowing feebly in the chill iron grate. Draco stared at them detachedly, eyes faraway and distracted. It was late in the afternoon- he’d missed dinner, and his stomach groaned, curling in on itself wretchedly. However, it soon resigned itself to emptiness for the night, and quieted down. Draco was in no position to allay its silent suffering; his mind was spinning with possibilities, questions, and sparks of agitated magic.

It had been a mere ten minutes ago that he’d come up with his plan.

Simply, it was the process of elimination.

After every other House had a Quidditch practice, Draco would sneak into the showers and check if anything had been added to the writing. Once he’d established what House the person was in… he didn’t know, exactly. His gut writhed with anticipation. This had consumed him for weeks- was he really risking the ruin of the only exciting thing in his life just for… curiosity’s sake?

Truthfully, he’d agonised over it all day, turning it over in his mind again and again. 

Was it worth it? Who could say. But the only thing he knew for sure…

Nothing could sate Malfoy curiosity except the truth.

So Draco tucked his legs up underneath him on the battered leather of the couch, socked feet curling in, as the faint drumming of rain on the lake echoed down through gallons of darkened water, drifting through the thick panes of the common room’s underwater windows and lulling his eyes half- shut. He sighed quietly, magic still sparking in his mind’s eye, and fell asleep as the last embers in the grate went out.

**********************************************************************************

_Hufflepuff day._

Draco woke early, restless, head thick and dizzied from lack of sleep. He stretched on the couch, groaning, and stood gingerly, hugging himself, before making his way over to the dark wooden drinks cabinet standing over by the west wall. Clumsily, he made himself a cup of milky Earl Grey, and sat cross- legged on the window seat to eke out the hours until breakfast, as the dawning sun sent warm, newborn rays stroking down through the water, caressing Draco’s face and staining the lake a becoming gold-green.  
It seemed both a very short and terribly long time until Draco heard the sound of feet on the stone of the dormitory steps, and the first gaggle of Slytherin girls padded sleepily through the common room, still tightening their green- striped ties and pulling emerald ribbons through their hair. Soon after, a trio of small boys burst down the stairs, jittering excitedly across the room, hair mussed as they slipped hastily through the dungeon door and fled, unable to contain themselves at the delicious aromas from the kitchen that had somehow begun to permeate even the common room way below the lake. From there, droves of students emerged from the dormitories, in various states of dress and fatigue. But it was not until the last sleep- deprived, weary fifth- year had slumped from the room, trailing Charms notes, that Draco unfurled himself on the cushy window seat and went up the stairs to dress. After all, he had plenty of time; Hufflepuff finished practice twenty minutes before first period, and that was ages away. Draco wasn’t hungry, either- his stomach felt oddly queasy from sleeping so little, and he wanted water more than anything.

He took his time pulling on his robes, ensuring his tie was immaculate and collar spotlessly folded, all the while sipping leisurely from his bedside goblet of water. But his hand, when he reached up to flick back his hair, was shaky.

After all, this was the first step of the plan- whatever happened, he’d be closer to finding out who he’d been communing with all this time. 

As he headed out of the common room, Draco cast a discreet _Tempus_ , wand flicking delicately under the voluminous sleeve of his robes.

Eight- forty.

Hufflepuff finished in five minutes.

Draco set a brisk pace, heading out through the courtyard and into the grounds. The corridors were pretty empty, most students still finishing breakfast, and he was relieved not to have to keep his head down as he took a sharp right out of the stone arches of the courtyard and onto the dewy grounds. He was careful not to stray onto the grass, treading precisely on the gravel path all the way down to the Quidditch pitch, morning air whipping blood into the apples of his cheeks. Faintly, he could make out several sets of wasp- yellow and black robes fluttering in the breeze as he approached the changing rooms, and a procession of Hufflepuff players made their way up to the castle in the opposite direction, backs to Draco as he came ever closer to the building they had just vacated.

The churning in his stomach refused to abate even slightly, and Draco felt more than queasy now - much as he hated to admit it, he had to lean against the wall of the changing rooms as he crossed the threshold, dizziness amplified by the shower- steamy air, thick with the scent of soap and young, male sweat.

It felt wrong, dissonant, to step into the shower room in his robes. Draco resisted the urge to strip, hands wringing nervously in front of him. He felt faintly ridiculous, standing frozen before the boys’ showers, but the nauseated feeling seeping into the very marrow of his bones was becoming overwhelming, and he had to close his eyes for a second before stepping into _his_ cubicle, nerves writhing. 

He couldn’t bring himself to draw it out; careless of his robes stroking over the damp walls, he spun to face the wall.

And- his eyes skimmed the lines, he processed-

Nothing.

Draco exhaled, blood thumping unsteadily through his veins. For a brief moment, he was breathless with something, an emotion it took a second for him to place, and when he did, he snorted with laughter.

It was relief.

 _Fuck, dad_ , he thought. _After all this, the deepest mark you’ve left on your son is the all- consuming desire to never have anything in common with a Hufflepuff._

And after that Draco had to keep laughing, had to carry on because it was just fucked- up enough to be funny, and he didn’t have anything against the ‘Puffs but God- imagine _kissing_ one. He gagged mentally, and—

Wait.

Just wait a second.

Who said anything about kissing?

And, fuck. Fuckety fuck. 

It crashed upon Draco like a tsunami. He _fancied_ this person- this secret writer. That was why he’d been so wound up about it. Why he’d wanted to badly to know.

Oh God.

Because this could only end badly, for Draco and whatever poor sod was writing this shit.

Who was going to want to date him? Who in the seven hells would ever even consider him like that? He was nobody at this school—worse than that. He was scum. He couldn’t put himself on a ridiculous dreg of hope, some fantastical dream that _maybe_ the person behind this would want him. And maybe, just maybe, he’d want them back.

But that was the issue.

Draco didn’t want anyone. He couldn’t; it wasn’t in him anymore. His desire, his infatuation, his capacity for want, had all been channelled hopelessly towards one place he was never getting it back from.

Potter.

And Potter… damn him, Potter would never want him like that.

****************************************************************************************************************************************

From then on, the day was a catastrophe. In Charms, Draco massaged his aching temples futilely as Professor Flitwick split up them up again—same trios as last time.

If anything, he wanted to punch Longbottom even more as he clung to Potter, talking to him for indecently long period of time for two people in different groups.

Zabini was worse- he kept _touching_ Potter, and it was driving Draco crazy. Just these soft, barely- noticeable brushes and steers that spoke of an intimacy so sacred Draco wanted to burn it to the ground. A gentle hand on Potter’s hip, a pretentious stroke of the cheek when there was no ink on there and everyone knew it, a laugh that saw them lean close to each other, so close that Draco’s heart started to cook itself in a boiling froth of white rage.

Zabini should not be touching Potter.

Zabini should not be breathing near Potter.

But he was, and what was more, Potter was allowing it- nay, _encouraging it_ , with a pliant sweetness Draco had never seen on him before.

It made him want to wreck him, to be perfectly honest, and Zabini’s greedy hands on him weren’t helping the situation.

Draco made exactly three sentences worth of notes on the Hypocrisy Phenomenon in that lesson, and two of them were identical.

Later, a worried- looking Theo Nott attempted to engage him in conversation over lunch, but Draco couldn’t focus, too preoccupied with the distance between Potter and Seamus Finnigan over at the Gryffindor table. With a decidedly unhealthy sense of victory, he watched as their hands brushed over the chicken drumsticks, and Potter snatched his away like he’d been burned. Finnigan’s grey- blue eyes lowered, lashes fanning down, and Draco could have danced atop the table.

It was all very sordid.

But the most worrying time of all was at precisely eleven fifty- seven at night, in the Slytherin boys dormitories, as Draco, enveloped in a Silencing Charm, came all over his sheets and chest with a mute gasp, visions of red lips and soft hips and bashful, laughing green eyes driving him over the edge until he lay spent and gasping. 

Yeah, that was concerning.

But whatever.

Draco wasn’t going to worry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you liked it! Not much going on, I know, but I swear after I finish the other fic - it's one of those all-consuming ones - I'll be right back on this. Please comment and tell me what you thought! Lots of love.


	6. 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An oddly long one, my friends-- enjoy the ride, I suppose. A lot goes on. Like seriously, uncharacteristically a lot. Hope you guys like it :))) please comment what you think.

The light, curling smoke of four cauldronfuls of bubbling Wistful Draught permeated the dank air of the dungeon, and Draco was getting more and more lightheaded as it thickened. He desperately tried to stay focused, finger tracing the print of his textbook, but the smoke definitely had some of the potion’s properties, and the urge to slump to the floor and stare tearfully at the curve of Potter’s arse was almost becoming too much. Besides, it was becoming more and more difficult to ignore the dreadful fact he’d been trying to block out the whole lesson- he was paired with Weasley. What’s more, it was not just Weasley, but an increasingly fractious and hotblooded Weasley, who kept trying to dump the wrong things into the Draught before they were meant to.

Draco snarled at a flash of billowing black robe in his left periphery, snatching Weasley’s wrist before he could empty a measure of ground Rottskunk nails into the creamy surface of their potion.

“Weasley, for fuck’s sake read the instructions,” he hissed, voice low and furious.

The ginger snatched his wrist back, practically spitting wounded pride. “I _did_ , you albino bastard!”

Draco gritted his teeth. Two years ago he’d have whipped out the blood traitor insults there and then. Now, he flattened his palms on the textbook and tried to think happy thoughts, fighting past the smoke- induced fantasies of Potter. “Why don’t you double- check, then?” He said as calmly as he could.

Weasley’s jaw worked, and he picked his textbook up defiantly, eyes skimming the page to find the instructions he’d misread. Draco knew which bit it was, too, but stood silently as the other boy fumed and tried to re- find the passage. He watched wearily as Weasley’s eyes finally widened in humiliation, and then looked up at Draco, narrowing in embarrassed anger. 

Draco thought that maybe it was strange he didn’t even feel satisfied, or vindicated. He was only hot, and itchy, and annoyed they’d lost this much time arguing. His brain was foggy with green fucking eyes, the same pair as always, and silently he damned the inventor of the Wistful Draught. Undoubtedly a hopeless romantic. Probably a Hufflepuff too.

He was snapped back to attention by the sound of Weasley, who was now trying to wring some kind of apology out of Draco for his harshness.

“Look, Malfoy, it’s my potion too, and if you—”

“Then you should be thanking me!” Draco whisper- yelled, fingers tight on the pages of his textbook. “I’m the one stopping you from wrecking it so neither of us get a T in this stupid subject!”

“I thought you didn’t care about anything, Malfoy,” Weasley fought, hair bristling with indignation. “What, not too good for Hogwarts anymore?”

“Fuck off, would you?” Draco said disgustedly, shoulders tense with anger. 

Weasley drew back, shoulders puffing out as he worked to think of something to say in return. Draco rolled his eyes and turned irritatedly back to the book, nerves wrung out from battling the potent effects of the smoke and this moron’s idiocy, because maybe Draco had said some stupid stuff - okay, a lot of stupid stuff - in sixth year, but everyone knew he hated failing at anything. Draco cared about school more than was comfortable, most days, but now that fierce desire to win was stumbling over the choking mist of steam the fucking potion was giving off, and the imbecile he’d been shoved with. It was just… too much.

 _Too much for a Malfoy?_ The Lucius Voice goaded.

Draco lowered his head determinedly.

**Three measures of Kneazle saliva, distilled.**

**Three measures of Kneazle saliva, distilled.**

**Measures… of three distilled Kneazle**

**Three… saliva… distilled…**

He reread the same line again and again, words spinning meaninglessly to curl around him tauntingly like poltergeists. He just couldn’t concentrate!

“Fuck,” Draco cursed aloud and blew out a frustrated breath, flinching as a small crash sounded somewhere to his left and Weasley swore quietly. He groaned.

 _Okay_ , he thought. _Focus, damn it._

**Three measures of Kneazle saliva, distilled.**

_Right_ , he thought slowly, ideas running like a slow river of treacle through his mind. God, why was he so sluggish? 

_Three measures. So. We need a beaker, and the saliva… is it already distilled?_

He looked up, hands sweeping the desk for the vial of thick, syrupy saliva.

“Weasley?” he said, eyes raking their cluttered bench.

“Yeah,” came a sullen voice. 

“Stop sulking,” Draco gritted, irritation filing his voice sharp. “And help me find the Kneazle saliva, would you?”

“The what?”

“Kneazle saliva!” he snapped. Where was it? He couldn’t see it anywhere on the bench…

“Uh… what did that look like again?” 

And Draco would have sworn at him, or flipped him off, but there was something in Weasley’s tone that made him raise his head slowly, eyes red- rimmed from all the mist, which was making the whole class tear up a bit.

“Why?”

“Just…” Weasley shifted nervously. “Just.”

“Clear vial, thick pink- tinged liquid within, lid red to signify mild toxicity,” Draco reeled off slowly, gaze pinned on the ginger boy squirming in front of him.

“I, um…, I… may have…”

“Spit it out, Weasley!” Draco barked, losing his patience.

Weasley gestured miserably to the patch of dingy dungeon floor just hidden by the corner of their work bench, and Draco went, breath coming sluggishly and blood pumping.

There, lying in fractured little shards, were the remains of a small glass bottle, and smeared thickly on the sticky stone flags was a viscous liquid that could only be describes as pink- tinged. The red lid had rolled a bit and was lying some feet away, near where Granger and Potter were working.

Draco looked up slowly, anger thundering in his ears and rushing to his head alarmingly quickly.

Weasley, who was at least two inches taller than him, stepped back and ran a hand through his thick ginger hair. 

“Just an accident, Malfoy!”

Draco swallowed roughly, throat straining, and he thought he was maybe going mad, because suddenly he couldn’t breathe with the overpowering need to punch Weasley, break bone. His thoughts, which had been so sluggish as he tried to focus, were now moving a million miles a minute- something was making him latch onto this frustration, and now it was the only thing he could focus on, the ballooning rage inside him swelling fit to pop. Then, mere milliseconds later he was daydreaming about seeing the blood flower from Weasley’s nose, freckled and crumpled to a painful angle. And, God, he didn’t _want_ to do that, exactly, but there was the spark of anger that he knew was definitely his, oh yes, and then there was something else just… building on that, creating a ball of fury in his chest like he’d never known before.

He hadn’t even known he cared _that_ much, but now he was breathing hard, smoke clogging his lungs, and he was angrier and angrier every second. All he wanted was to run and _punch_ —

Draco leaped and crashed onto Weasley, sending them both tumbling to the floor with an almighty crash, and Draco hated physical exertion but there was a sort of mist over him that made him feel utterly bloodthirsty, and he reached an arm back to hit Weasley, only to feel someone grip his forearm and haul him up roughly, grabbing the other arm and holding them behind his back as he struggled weakly.

He felt something wet on his cheeks and Draco realised he was crying, eyes streaming with the strength of the mist their Draught was giving off. Through a haze of tears, he saw Granger helping Weasley up from the floor, and the other students standing around, shocked- looking and frozen. Draco heaved suddenly, stomach convulsing on itself, and his airways felt tight, as though they were closing in. The thick dew of tears blurring his eyesight worsened, and he hacked, arms kept firmly behind his back by whoever was holding him. He had just started to gasp for air as a voice said,

_“Evanesco.”_

The thick mist clouding the dungeon vanished, along with everyone’s potions, and Draco breathed in cold, clean air. He choked slightly, vision clearing up, and the hot mist of anger that had overwhelmed him faded almost immediately to nothing. His arms were still inconveniently trapped, though, and now he was more aware of his surroundings Draco realised there was a warm, solid chest pressed tightly to his back to keep him from squirming away. He twisted his neck, caught a whiff of apples, and before he even saw who it was, he knew.

“Godric, Malfoy,” Potter said in his ear, and that was enough to make him tense all over, the hum spreading over the nape of his neck, which was exposed and vulnerable. He could feel Potter’ warm breath, and he wanted to spin around and kiss him hard enough to bruise, run his hands all over him, bury his fingers in the dark hair he could feel tickling his ear. His arms were held tightly, so fucking tightly, and he wanted to writhe a bit, test the limits.

Instead, he scowled. “Mind—” he broke off to choke a little, and it completely ruined his mojo. He swallowed. “Mind releasing me, Potter?”

The other boy laughed lowly, letting his grip on his wrists go, and he’d been holding on _hard_ \- Draco surreptitiously massaged his wrists, suppressing a moan at the thought of Potter holding his wrists together with that precise, unshakable pressure.

Draco looked up at the students surrounding him, and just behind them, to where Professor Slughorn was just tucking his wand back in the breast pocket of his waistcoat.

“I- sorry, Professor,” he said, swallowing his pride.

“No harm done, Mr Malfoy,” Slughorn said jovially, lowering his glasses in mock- disapproval. “Luckily for Mr. Weasley here—” Draco cast a glance at the ginger and had to repress a snort at his thunderous expression “—Mr. Potter intervened in time. Just the effect of a particularly strong Wistful Draught, I think; this does tend to happen, if a mishap occurs and particularly sharp frustration is felt. The potion’s mist can be highly potent, if emotions rise a little too high. Indeed, students do usually have a bit more trouble than usual concentrating when they make this.” Slughorn chuckled. “Too busy daydreaming.”

He turned a little sterner suddenly, and everybody stood straighter. “However, it can be rather dangerous when partners fall out, and their anger is strong enough for the potion to exacerbate to violent levels. You did drop the Kneazle saliva, did you not, Mr Weasley?”

Weasley had the grace to look ashamed. “Sorry, Professor,” he said to the floor.

“That’s alright, m’boy, it’s your partner you ought to apologise to. Look! Mr. Potter had to hold him back. Are your wrists alright, Mr. Malfoy? No chafing?”

Draco tried hard not to blush, thoughts crashing back to a series of very vivid images of Potter holding his wrists with… other intent. 

“Don’t think so, sir.” He tried to sound gruff, or at the very least disaffected, and heard Potter snort behind him.

“Weasley? Have you anything to say to your partner?” Slughorn probed.

Draco looked gleefully at Weasley, struggling to keep the smirk off his face.

“Sorry,” Weasley muttered, looking as far from contrite as one could possibly get. He looked at Granger for support, but the curly- haired girl was glowering at him, standing beside her empty cauldron with a wounded air. 

Draco nodded in acknowledgement, mouth tight to trap the snicker that wanted to escape him.

Slughorn examined the empty cauldrons regretfully, dark green robes billowing behind him.

“Unfortunately, the potions can’t be restored, but I think you’ve all gotten the idea of it, haven’t you?” He looked around the class, all of whom were glaring at either Weasley or Draco in blame. 

“Yes, Professor,” Granger said, forcing a smile.

“Wonderful. After all, it’s an essential for the exam- almost certainly, it’ll come up.”

Draco resisted the urge to hide from Granger’s venomous gaze behind Potter, who he could hear groaning quietly behind him.

Everyone returned to their benches as Slughorn trotted back to the front of the classroom.

“Right, well the bell will be going any minute, so I suppose you’d all better pack away.”

Draco ducked his head, hands busy over his Potions kit, putting everything back and send the rubbish flying over to the bin with a flick of his wand. Weasley was making a right racket, grumpily tossing things into his bag with a foul expression on his face.

“Cheer up, Weasley, I didn’t actually hit you, did I?”

“Lucky for you,” the ginger growled, shoving his textbook in next to his potions kit. “I was holding back.”

“Sure you were, Weaselbee,” Draco said easily, slinging his bag over his shoulder. “Sure you were.”

The bell rang, cutting through the dialogue all around the room, and Draco tucked his hands into his pockets, hanging back, waiting for everyone else to leave. But Weasley couldn’t close his bag, fumbling with the buckle and shoving at his awkwardly positioned belongings to make room. Out of the corner of Draco’s eye, half- obscured by a piece of blond hair that was hanging over his bent face, he saw Potter and Granger approaching, Granger still fiddling with the strap on her own satchel.

 _Shite_ , he thought. _Can’t I go one lesson without interacting extensively with him?_

But it seemed he could not. Potter, with an exasperated glance at Granger’s fussing, walked up to Weasley and wordlessly began helping him repack his bag, which had now been emptied of its contents entirely and was ready for a more strategic filling. Their heads were bent together as they murmured, just like in Muggle Studies, except now Draco was curious. He hooked his thumbs over the edges of his pockets and stood casually, cocking a hip to push his ear a fraction closer to their conversation, and listened in.

“—definitely pissed with me,” Potter was saying, a touch of anxiety colouring his tone. “I’ve been avoiding him since, and then in the dorm… you saw how he was.”

“Think he’s just hurt, mate,” Weasley muttered, homework timetable in hand. “I don’t think it was really about what happened when….”

Outside the classroom, there was a flurry of robes and shoes on stone, scuffling noise and low chatter obscuring the rest of his sentence. Draco clenched his jaw in frustration, intrigued. He scooted closer to the other boys, and listened intently, opening up his bag and pretending to look for something in it.

“…thought you valued it more than that,” the ginger was finishing. “He feels iced out.”

“That’s not my fault!” Potter exclaimed, and looked up slightly in nervousness, checking to see if anyone had heard. Draco looked away quickly, and busied himself with his bag. 

“I told him,” Potter resumed, in a harried tone, “if he wanted to mess around, he couldn’t tell anyone.”

“Well, he didn’t, did he?” Weasley replied, and it silenced the dark haired boy for a moment. Draco was fascinated, hands slackening on the leather of his satchel as he leant in. A voice in the back of his mind screamed that he was being painfully obvious. But the worry was silenced by Potter’s murmur, so low Draco had to strain in order to hear.

“No, but then…”

“Then what?” Weasley demanded, doing up the final buckle on his bag. “You haven’t told me what happened to spook you, mate, and until you do I can’t help you. It’s not adding up for me, and Sea doesn’t know what to do. He’s hurt.”

 _Sea_. Draco’s head spun. _Seamus. Fucking Finnigan._

“I know,” Potter said, head hung, and Draco felt this fierce, clawing ache to stroke his hair in comfort, and maybe possessiveness, he didn’t know. “I know he is.”

He patted Weasley’s bag, suddenly, and the ginger swung it over his shoulder, seconds before the both of them looked up.

Draco jerked out of his trance, hands shaking slightly with nerves as he fiddled anxiously with his trousers, not daring to look up as Potter and Weasley made for the exit. Once he deemed it safe, he blew out a quick breath, head spinning with what he’d just overheard, and straightened, about to leave—only to freeze.

Granger was staring at him from across the classroom, one hand resting on the strap of her bag, the other drumming thoughtfully - and probably unconsciously - on her lower lip. 

Draco held his breath for a second, terrified of what she might have seen, brain running crazily over how he must have looked just then, earwigging shamelessly. Worse still- had he looked obviously invested in the conversation? In what Potter had to say about Finnigan?

He swallowed.

“Can I help you with anything, Granger?” He said, rudely.

“No,” she replied calmly, eyes sharp and alive with something Draco couldn’t place. It wasn’t—mischief? 

“No, you’re alright, Malfoy,” she continued. “I’ll see you in Muggle Studies.”

Draco nodded, mouth tight. “Yeah.”

There was a pause, in which they both looked at each other, Draco in mild hostility, and maybe a little curiosity, and Granger with an open amusement that bewildered Draco entirely.

She smirked, the tips of pearly molars peeking through her glossy lips.

And then Granger left, leaving Draco slightly short of breath, confused and intrigued and altogether late for his next lesson.

*****************************************************************************************************************************************

Draco peered out from under the arches of the courtyard at the grounds, obscured thickly by pounding sheets of rain that slickened grass and stone alike. He grimaced, and cast a surreptitious Shield Charm, body enveloped in a softly glowing bubble that would hopefully protect him from the relentless weather. He took a breath, and ducked out from the cover, into the maelstrom of wind and rain.

Though the Shield Charm protected him from the water, the wind pierced his bubble with malicious ease, slicing into his cheeks and whipping them red until he was flushed, hair rumpled and tugged in different directions. He bent his head against the onslaught and carried on, buffeted by the fierce wind so much that he slipped on a step and landed hard on his hands and knees, the skin of his palms smarting and scraped. He scrambled to his feet, and now there were two muddy patches over his knees. Swearing, Draco stumbled on, and it was sapping his effort to keep the Charm up this long against such strong rain. When he had descended the huge slope upon which Hogwarts was set, he broke into a jog, feet unsteady over the long masses of tangled grass, slipping over the squelching mud and narrowly avoiding falling over again. Presently, the hoops of the Quidditch pitch pierced the thick fog clouding the ground, and Draco slowed, veering left towards the changing rooms with a sigh of relief.

 _One more minute_ , he thought desperately, willing the Shield Charm to hold until he could get inside. But it was weakening steadily, and he was so close to the changing rooms, but then he felt a dribble of rainwater over his nose, and he spluttered, swearing. 

_No, nononono—_

The Charm collapsed, and rain poured in, drenching Draco in seconds as he stumbled in shock, and started to sprint the short distance between him and shelter.

With a groan, he collapsed against the brick wall and leant into it, gasping for breath. His hair was sopping, darkened by rain and dripping into his eyes, gel completely dissolved. His robes- he looked down and grimaced- were soaked at the shoulders, weighing heavy and wrinkling uncomfortably so he had to keep shifting and rolling his shoulders.

With an exhausted sigh, he heaved himself off the wall, and staggered slightly, unbalanced by the sodden weight of his robes. 

The showers were’t steamy today- Ravenclaw had had their practice early in the morning and he’d had lessons all day. The only traces of the team were damp spots on the wooden benches where the players had sat, undoubtedly drenched from the rain that had been pouring all morning. There was still a Hufflepuff scarf hanging from one of the pegs above the benches from their last practice- all the houses used the one changing facility now, since the other three had been burned down in sixth year by Draco’s beloved Auntie Bella. They had yet to be resurrected, for some reason, so all four houses used this one for their practices. Draco had no idea how they were going to cope in Quidditch season when there were matches on, and two opposing teams would need to be crammed into the same quarters. 

Draco’s gaze landed on the shower area, and his fists tightened against his robes, the lyrics of that fated song twisting back to the fore of his mind in a feline, inescapably elegant sort of way. God, he loved that song. It had kept him alive, alive in a sort of visceral, speaks- to- my- soul sort of sense. 

He didn’t know if he’d ever be able to listen to that song again if this went wrong.

He allowed himself a minute to breathe before going into the showers, and sort out the tangle of thoughts knotting itself stubbornly in his mind. He closed his eyes, and mentally plunged into the melee.

 _Ohmygod what if we find out what if we find out what if we find out_ , was the shrill refrain of his subconscious, shrieking a little hysterically over a bass rumble Draco could identify as, _at least it’s not a Hufflepuff, that would be so shit._

A bored voice, maybe the Lucius Voice, intoned, _it doesn’t matter who it is- you’re already smitten with them, Draco. What exactly is the point in prolonging this?_

And then there was the dry rejoinder that Draco most identified with as his own mind- _if it must be Ravenclaw, I’d rather it be Smythe or Blighty. Definitely the best arses on the team, and Smythe’s filled out pretty nicely this term_.

But there was someone else in there too, a voice Draco just knew didn’t belong to him or any of his alter egos, or even the version of his deceased father that was immortalised in his subconscious. It was low, gravelly, and utterly unrelated to the issue at hand. Simply, it was repeating one thing, over and over. 

_Godric, Malfoy._

_Godric, Malfoy._

_Godric, Malfoy._

_Godric—_

Fucking clearly, that was Potter’s voice. Potter, pressed up against him in Potions, holding his wrists tight and breathing hotly over his neck and mocking him—

 _The showers_ , Draco thought. _We are going into the showers now. Fuck._

Would it always be like this? Potter filling up every cranny of his mind, arousing him and maddening him, utterly unreachable… forever?

Draco’s jaw clenched. He couldn’t let that happen. He needed this person, whoever it was, to get him past Potter and this ridiculous… infatuation that could never lead anywhere.

He shook his head, blushing and furious with himself, trying to focus on Blighty and Smythe and the undeniable quality of their respective arses, striding into the shower area without a second glance at the benches. 

But there was nothing he could do to silence that voice, much as he could soothe the others. For this one did not belong to him. It was alien, other, and therefore entirely beyond his control. And so, as he stepped into his cubicle and turned slowly to face the wall, the jittering pulse of his beating heart thrummed to the tune of _‘Godric, Malfoy.’_

Much as he tried, he couldn’t bring himself to hate it. 

********************************************************************************************************************************************

The next few days passed in a haze of indecision; Draco went from lesson to lesson, unfocused and preoccupied, mind swirling with possibility. Several times, he was called upon for an answer and had to improvise, ducking his head to hide an embarrassed blush. It was all very inconvenient, all very clichéd. He could attribute it to one thing, and one thing alone:

There hadn’t been anything on the wall.

Draco had sort of expected it, actually, with a sick sort of surety in his stomach.

Unfortunately, now his suspicions had been confirmed, it left only one team.

Gryffindor.

Bloody pigheaded, red- and gold, obnoxious hero complex Gryffindor.

Potter’s Gryffindor.

(Draco had given up trying not to relate everything to Potter. It was fruitless, and a total waste of his energy. Frankly, he burnt enough brain cells wanking over Potter’s mouth every night. He didn’t need to fry any more by trying in vain not to think about him.)

So it was with great frustration, and maybe a tiny bit of relief that he’d never admit to because Malfoys did not back down from a plan, that Draco found out it was Ravenclaw practice again this week instead of Gryffindor. Outwardly, he was fuming at the delay. Privately, he was grateful for the little bit of respite it gave him to formulate a plan.

 _And_ , he realised midway through Arithmancy, _I don’t actually need to check the showers after Gryffindor’s practice. I already know it’s one of them. I just need to figure out which one._

And making a plan for that turned out to be… a lot more difficult.

Firstly, he’d need to know which player went in which shower, which was impossible unless he saw it for himself, and he’d need to check the wall after each player went in. But for that, he’d need to be in the changing rooms at the same time as Gryffindor, which was honestly impossible. Practices didn’t mix. It gave other houses an opportunity to spy on each other, and promoted dirty tricks in the locker room. Back when houses sometimes did split practices and were on the pitch training at the same time, several of the best players got jinxed in the showers by the other team training, or hexed in front of the mirrors. It was a minefield for poor sportsmanship.

So how could he get in there when it was practice season? 

He mulled it over for days, as Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff practiced and practiced and practiced. He hoped they were putting all this time to good use. They’d need it anyway. Draco and the Slytherin team had been in and out quite a bit, too, and they were shaping up to be pretty lethal. In fact, he was surprised Gryffindor hadn’t been practicing during that week- he was in the midst of wondering why- and also, incidentally, just about to duck into the Charms classroom- when Blaise Zabini shouldered past him roughly, striding into the room with agitated eyes.

“Salazar, Zabini,” Draco said angrily, following him in. “I know you don’t like me, but—“

“Shut up.”

“What?!” Draco was stunned. “I will _not_ —“

“Shut _up_ , Malfoy, for fuck’s sake,” Zabini said, gaze raking over the airy classroom. He was clearly looking for something. Draco stared at him for a long moment, before stepping in front of him and waving his arms obnoxiously, bag clunking against his thigh.

“Hello? Earth to Zabini. Anybody home?”

“Stop being a child,” Zabini hissed, knocking his arms down and turning away. He’d evidently not found what he was looking for, as his eyes were anxious and his voice thin when he spoke.

Draco stepped in. “What is it? What’re you—“

“Oh, be quiet, you great blond oaf!” 

Draco was mortally offended. He’d never been called an oaf in his life. Oaf was the sort of his he used to call Hagrid. It implied clumsiness, dirtiness, vulgarity. Draco was, he knew for a fact, none of these things.

How dare this brat?

“Oaf?” He shouldered closer to Zabini, gaze murderous. “Oaf? Do you—“

“Fucking turn around, Malfoy,” Zabini said impatiently, looking as though his mind were whizzing a million miles a minute.

With an insolent pause, Draco turned slowly to face the classroom, eyes moving over it. He didn’t get it.

“What? I don’t see anything wrong.” He folded his arms.

“You’re not looking for a _thing_ , idiot,” Zabini said disgustedly.

“I’m not?”

“Oh, on Salazar.” The other boy gave a heavy, condescending sigh, as though he were about to spell something out for a very tiresome five year old. (Draco would have hexed him, but he was too curious.)

“I expected more of you, of all people, Malfoy.”

“What’s that supposed to—“

“What— or, should I say _who_ , is the one thing you look for as soon as you’ve sat down in a classroom?”

Draco was perplexed. “As in me personally or people in general?”

“You personally, halfwit,” Zabini snapped.

“I don’t… who do I…?” He trailed off, brain moving thickly and disjointedly. Zabini stared at him as though he was the thickest person is the world. Draco bristled, and drew himself up, wracking his brains. 

_Who do I look for as soon as I’ve sat down in a classroom?_

It felt like a riddle. It sounded like a riddle. But, taking one look at Zabini’s disbelieving face, Draco felt like maybe the truth was staring him right in the face. This wasn’t some ambiguous code he had to crack. This was an observation Zabini had made about Draco. 

_Who do I look for as soon as I’ve sat down in a classroom?_

And it smacked him in the face like green eyes and apples and a thousand batches of Wistful Draught.

Potter.

Zabini saw the realisation dawn on his face, and before Draco could blush or move or stammer out a reply, he cut him off.

“This isn’t me making some joke about it, or being a jealous prick- despite what you seem to think, Malfoy, Potter and I are not involved, neither have we ever been involved.” He raised an eyebrow archly. “Not that it’s any of your bloody business.”

Draco tried to gather his wits. “So why are we talking about—?”

“Because he’s still not _here_ , is he?” Zabini said, waving his arms like a lunatic.

Draco blinked.

“Uh, no?”

“So?”

“Yeah, so what? I don’t understand. He’s allowed to be late, isn’t he?”

Zabini’s mouth dropped open. “You’re seriously telling me that _Draco Malfoy_ hasn’t noticed that Potter’s been gone all week?”

Draco flushed. “I don’t know what you mean.”

Zabini rolled his eyes furiously, so hard Draco honestly thought they might just stay stuck up there, pupils swooping up into his beautifully sculpted brows.

“Please, Malfoy. Give me a sodding break. You never take your eyes off the boy- not in the Hall, not in lessons, not anywhere. You haven’t noticed he’s been gone all week?”

“I—I—“ Draco couldn’t form a whole sentence.

 _Potter’s been gone all week?_ The revelation stunned him. How had he not noticed? 

But he’d been so absorbed in checking the showers, thinking about ways in which to catch the Gryffindor from the showers, he’d barely been paying attention in lessons, much less in the Hall. Often, he skipped meals, opting just to nurse a mug of milky tea in the common room and stare out of the window, watching the faint shadows of seaweed stroke over the glass and counting baby squids.

He stared at Zabini, floored.

“I hadn't noticed.”

Zabini sighed. “Well, he’s in the hospital wing. I was checking because...” he gnawed on his thumbnail, and Draco was taken aback by the endearing look of it. “I thought he’d be back by now. He’s just… I mean, normally… I mean…”

“Let me guess,” Draco said drily. “It has something to do with the weird dynamic between you two where you treat him like glass and he curbs your hard edges and it’s all sweet and romantic and inter- house unity.”

Zabini’s lip curled, and something of the glacial, savage- eyed boy Draco had been faced with for the past term returned. “No need to sound quite so jealous, Malfoy. At least we can look each other in the eye. You and Potter can barely sit next to each other without coming in your pants or storming out. It’s pretty pathetic, actually.”

“Really?” Draco said archly. “I didn’t think you’d say anything against Potter now.”

Zabini snarled. “I was referring to you.”

“Didn’t make that cle- ear,” Draco drawled in a sing- song tone.

Hot brown eyes flashed fire at him. “Let’s be clear, Malfoy, we are not friends. I am telling you this because I’m worried about Potter staying this long in the hospital wing, and I know you obsess over him enough to care.” 

“Why don’t you talk to Granger and Weasley?” Draco asked mulishly. “They’ll know what’s up with the Golden Boy. God knows they’ve probably been licking his wounds every day.”

“He’s not allowed visitors,” Zabini mumbled, and Draco felt a hot spike of worry pierce his throat, choking him off for a second.

“So what’s the issue?” he said finally, hiding his own fear. “He’s probably fine.” 

“You don’t understand,” Zabini muttered. “He’s delicate.”

Draco was aghast. “Harry Potter? Delicate?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Zabini snapped, and something in his voice, frayed with anxiety and a badly veiled depth of concern, made Draco say, “alright. Okay. We’ll look into it after Charms, yeah?”

And Zabini, miraculously, nodded. 

********************************************************************************************************************************

“So, Zabini,” Draco said, hands tucked into his pockets as they walked briskly up the first floor stairs. “How come you’re talking to me civilly now?”

Zabini rolled his eyes. “God, you’ve really zoned out this week, haven’t you?”

Draco wrinkled his nose. “I’m not about to give you another confused stare; you had enough of those before Charms. Just put me out of my misery, will you?”

Zabini stepped ahead of him, turning smoothly so he was walking backwards through the Transfiguration corridor and facing Draco as they walked.

“It was in the Prophet four days ago. The guy who spilled on… on my mum, and the others. He came out with a whole article about how it was him. He wanted money from the Ministry, or something stupid. I... thought you knew.” He had the grace to look at his dark shoes, brown eyes just shy of sheepish.

“…oh,” was all Draco said, carefully neutral. To tell the truth, he would have screamed ‘ha- ha- ha’ in Zabini’s face, but he was far too interested in finding out about his relationship with Potter to break this new bond.

Zabini scowled. “You can say it, you know. Dick. I can practically hear your thoughts.”

Draco smirked. “Told you.”

The corner of Zabini’s mouth flicked up, and a dimple Draco had never seen before pressed itself obscenely deep into his glossy cheek. Draco watched for a second, pleasantly surprised at the entirely different look of the other boy’s face, and then shook his head minutely, smile still fixed to his face.

They walked on, Slytherin code preventing either of them from harsher words, and for once Draco was grateful for the code of etiquette their families had impressed upon them, allowing them to finally just move on from something as easy as breathing.

**********************************************************************************************************************************************

The air in the hospital wing smelt sterile and detergent-y, and somehow utterly still. No breezes, shifts of air or draughts ruffled the cool, clean atmosphere. The one patient, lying curled on a pristinely white hospital bed with starched covers neatly tucked over him, was just as still as everything else, chest rising and falling rhythmically and dark eyelashes motionless, fanned down over his eyes. As Draco and Blaise walked in, Draco had the uncomfortable sensation of intrusion. They had disrupted the tranquillity of the hospital wing, the restful air, and he felt an overwhelming hostility all of a sudden, and a strange feeling of guilt, though they weren’t making any noise.

Zabini, beside him, looked spooked. He half- turned to Draco and put his hand on his arm, warm profile outlined by the bright white of the walls. “Malfoy… you know, maybe we should come back…”

But Draco’s gaze was pinned on the mop of dark hair spread over a snow- white pillow on the fifth bed down, the lean curve of a sleeping back outlined softly by thick covers. He shook Zabini’s hand off absently, distractedly. The boy beside him was not his main concern. Without even looking around for Madam Pomfrey, who would butcher them if she found them disturbing Potter, he walked slowly over to the bed where he was sleeping, footsteps sure and soft. From where he was standing, only the clean outline of Potter’s nose and lashes were visible, his hair impossibly soft and wild over most of his face, cast into gold- black shadow as it was by the dappled sunrays streaming in from the enormous window over his head. 

A wave of tenderness enveloped Draco, the like of which he’d never felt before. He wanted, more fiercely than he’d ever experienced, to stroke back the feathered chaos of Potter’s dark, silken hair, to curl up next to him and fit their bodies together, breathe softly over the gold- stained expanse of his cheek. 

It was ridiculous, really. In all Draco’s years at Hogwarts he’d been distracted – obsessed – by Potter. But he’d never gotten to know him, had he? They’d never spoken softly, cross- legged on each other’s four posters at three in the morning like him and Pansy, never joked over breakfast and Vanished each other’s favourite juice. They’d never hugged fierce and hot on platform nine and three- quarters, an icy holiday in the Manor looming over Draco like a Dementor. But somehow, over the years, the corrosive anger between the two boys - the malice and taunts and fights - had led Draco to have a bizarrely deep understanding of Harry Potter, one that provided him a comprehensive, sensitive knowledge of all his weaknesses and fears and darkness. And somewhere along the way… Draco had begun to notice his beauty, all flushed cheeks and bright eyes and quick sarcasm. The way his robes were tight across his chest and hit perfectly on his ankles, fluttering up to expose deliciously delicate arches and tendons. How he was shorter, significantly so, than Draco; that if they stood chest- to chest, Potter could hook his chin over Draco’s shoulder and Draco could maybe dip his head and drink in the scent of Potter’s hair, arms fitting round each other as they pressed so tight they wondered if they could ever let go. Yes, in a perverse way, Draco knew Harry Potter better than he knew anyone else.

But then, Draco thought, staring down at Potter lying asleep on the hospital bed, maybe he didn’t know all his weaknesses anymore. 

Blaise, however…

Draco looked at the tall, brown- skinned boy beside him, and the anxiety on his face set Draco’s stomach writhing.

“What’s wrong with him?” He said quietly, voice rough.

Zabini looked pained. “I can’t… he has to…”

Draco gritted his teeth. Something about seeing Potter lying vulnerable and alone made him snappish and brittle. It unsettled him, and he didn’t like it.

"Well how do _you_ know, then? What is it that you and Potter have that means you can know and not me?” He demanded, hot anger rising in him. It might have been ludicrous to anyone except Zabini, because to everyone else Draco hated Potter. But Zabini knew… everything, as far as Draco could tell, and he didn’t bat an eyelash at the question.

“I know how much you… how you care about him,” Zabini said carefully. “But he told me this in confidence, and even if he wouldn’t mind you knowing I can’t risk that. It’s… personal.”

“When?” Draco asked, trying to contain the jealousy needling at him. “When did you two become confidantes?” He was aware he was acting like a possessive boyfriend. He didn’t care.

Zabini shifted. “Over the summer. He was… shocked, from after the war, isolated, even.”

“What about his friends? Weasley? Granger?”

“In love.” Zabini grimaced, faint disdain etching a line onto his forehead. “They’re all close, obviously, but those two were – by accident, of course - entirely absorbed in each other.”

Draco nodded, impatient. “So you met up…?” he asked, desperately attempting to disguise the hungry tone of his voice.

“We met at…” Zabini looked up at the ceiling in evident discomfort. He gnawed at his lip, and said nothing.

“I won’t tell anyone, Zabini,” Draco said quietly, and he meant it. “I can keep a secret.” He shot his left forearm, imprinted with the Dark Mark, an amused glance. “Obviously.”

A tight smile crossed Zabini’s lips. He inhaled deeply and then blew out the breath.

“We met at a sort of Muggle… group therapy thing.” Zabini said, and a deep blush coloured his cheeks. “I was…” it rushed out of him in a confessional flood, humiliation eating at his diction. “I was there because my mum was distant, and messed up from everything, and I couldn’t risk anyone I knew finding out. I knew I had to resort to Muggles if I wanted to keep it remotely secret that I was having trouble at home. Unfortunately for me…” a genuine, albeit small, smile tipped the corners of his lips up. “Harry had the same idea. He was there because… well, that’s private.” Zabini shrugged apologetically. “But you can probably guess, to be honest. The things he’d had to do the year Voldemort died… he was struggling. Understandably, of course, but when I saw him sitting across from me I was a total dick about it.”

Draco smirked. “No surprises there.”

Zabini gave him a faux- wounded look, and it was shockingly comfortable, the two of them. “Well, be that as it may, he’d faced a lot worse, and he sussed out that I was cagey about anyone in the wizarding world finding out. So after the third session, he approached me, and we talked, and he reassured me he wouldn’t tell anyone unless I wanted them to know. And we sort of… got close, after that. Met up a lot, talked a lot. But when I got better, more secure in the new world and at dealing with shit at home… Harry had difficulty. He’s been okay so far this year, but at the beginning of this week I knew he’d had a bad relapse when I couldn’t find him anywhere. I found out from Dean Thomas he was in here.”

Draco swallowed. “Did you…?” He blushed, knowing he sounded utterly obvious.

Zabini huffed a laugh. “Date? No. Fuck, no.” He rubbed the back of his neck self- consciously, fingers precise and sweeping. “We were more like brothers- the summer was tough, for everyone. We became too close too fast for it to be romantic. It was like… we needed each other’s advice, and companionship, and support. There was no time for any of that.”

“Right. Okay.” Draco frowned, trying to process. It felt like a great weight had been lifted from his chest. When he looked between Potter and Zabini, it no longer felt weighted or painful. “Okay.” He gave Zabini a cautious smile, and received a dimpled counterpart in return. 

“So should we—”

He was interrupted by a soft shifting on the bed before them, and a creaking sound from the mattress. They looked down to see Potter sleepily turning over, throwing an arm half- over his eyes to block out the warm rays haloing him. 

“Wha time s’it?” he asked the room, squinting in a way that was desperately cute. Draco’s stomach tightened.

“Just before lunch,” Zabini replied, voice pitched low and careful.

Potter blinked. “Blaise?” His eyes peeked open, and he smiled briefly at Blaise, before his gaze slid – agonisingly drowsily – over to Draco. Immediately, a stream of emotions flashed over his face, too quickly for Draco to identify any of them. His eyebrows drew together finally, and when he spoke his voice was adorably bewildered.

_“Malfoy?”_

Draco gave a ginger half- smile, breath shallow. His fingers twisted behind his back, out of sight.

Potter sat up quickly, reaching for his glasses on his bedside table and putting them on hastily. As his vision must have sharpened, Draco saw his brain click into gear and start obfuscating, although rather sleepily.

“I, uh, I fell off my broom. Training. I bruised my arm and my side, so Madam Pomfrey thought I should…but I’m… fine now?” Potter grimaced, obviously aware of how thin his excuse sounded.

Draco gave a breezy smile. “That’s fine. I believe you.”

He cringed inwardly.

 _I believe you?_ Was he trying to make it as obvious as possible that he knew Potter was lying?

“Oh… great.” Potter looked nonplussed, and maybe a little suspicious, hair falling endearingly into his eyes and sticking up crazily. He looked confusedly between Blaise and Draco, and Draco wanted to laugh madly, because last Potter saw, he and Blaise were at each other’s throats. Blaise was also clearly struggling not to smirk, as Draco kept seeing the ghost of a dimple flashing in and out of his cheek while his muscles worked to keep his face blank.

But then the ginger truce broke, split not by choice but by Potter adjusting and wincing, hands twisting in the duvet as he pulled the covers a little closer to him.

And it was then that Draco saw the bandages.

He was completely taken by surprise, so much so that he actually rocked back on his heels a fraction, jaw locking up in disbelief. He could feel his eyes lock onto the thin white loops of cloth wrapped around Potter’s wrists and his breaths were suddenly ragged.

 _No_ , he thought. _It can’t possibly be. It. Cannot. Possibly…_

_Could it?_

Draco threw a glance at Blaise, who hadn’t noticed Draco’s shock, and the other boy looked at him, registering his expression. He looked confused for a second, eyes flitting between him and Potter, but then his gaze landed on Potter’s wrists, still lying on the blanket. A shutter came down over Blaise’s eyes. He sunk his teeth into his bottom lip, and something like panic took hold of his features. He reached out for Draco, as if to usher him away before Potter saw his face, but it was too late. Just as Blaise opened his mouth to make an excuse, Potter spoke, staring down at his hands.

“You can’t tell anybody, Draco.” His voice was small, impossibly so, and Draco had to wonder if this was really the Boy who Lived.

He realised he should probably say something, His mouth felt curiously dry as he opened it; he licked his lips and took a breath. “I- I won’t.”

Potter’s voice became harder, sharpened by something that mingled defensiveness and urgency. “These weren’t from this week.” He gestured to his wrists for the first time, a careful slide of fingers over the bandages, and Draco winced, unable to meet the other boy’s eyes. Blaise, beside him, was still.

“I did them over the summer. Low point. The only reason the bandages are still on is because they were touched by magic when they were still raw. Muggle blade, magical concealment charms. So while they heal, they’re bandaged. Okay?”

Draco nodded dazedly and looked up at Potter in something that felt like apology. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

“It’s fine,” Potter said roughly, and looked down. “It’s fine,” he repeated, softer.

“I’m here for… I get these things,” Potter began, and breathed in slowly. “The Muggles call them panic attacks. It’s post- traumatic stress disorder. After Voldemort. When we were… when I was trying to fight him, I used to get these nightmares, dreams of where he was and what he was doing, Often, it was torture. Now he’s gone, I have those dreams over and over, and sometimes – not always – but sometimes, I wake up and I can’t breathe from the panic of it all. I think he’s going to come back stronger, and this time everyone I love will be killed. It’s mad, obviously.” His voice shook, and Draco’s fists clenched. 

“But it is what it is. That’s what happened earlier this week. I freaked out, and passed out, and my breathing was messed up so my muscles went into a sort of spasm. But it’s not the bandages, okay?” Potter said fiercely, raising his head. His green eyes were bright with vulnerable tears, and maybe shame too. “…those cuts were a mistake. I’m not as weak as that.” He shook his head vehemently, dark hair flopping over his face.

Draco felt a wave of emotion slam into him, and blinked away tears embarrassedly.

“The cuts don’t make you weak,” he said gently, and the other boy’s eyes flew to his.

They stared at each other for a long moment, and Draco’s mouth felt very clumsy as he said, “I- um, I won’t tell anybody. I promise.”

Potter inclined his head a tiny bit. “I’ll be back in lessons tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Draco said quickly. “I’ll see you then?” It was tentative, but Potter smiled softly, the right corner of his red lips lifting infinitesimally, and taking Draco’s heart with it.

“Okay.”

“Okay.”

And- Potter?" Draco said, feeling as though he had to get it out quickly or he'd die of the burning feeling that was snaking through his body at the sight of those eyes on him.

"I'm sorry. For-- before. In the broom cupboard, with Finnigan. The things I said... I was drunk. And stupid. I didn't mean-- I didn't mean any of it."

Potter smirked at him, and Draco's guts twisted beautifully.

"I know."

Blaise had his arm, then, and they were walking away. Draco felt strangely numb, and his mouth wanted to smile forever but his head was spinning with everything, splashed over with joy and weighted with sadness for this beautiful boy that he’d loved since always, but who was damaged for reasons that weren’t his fault.

As they approached the exit, Potter called after them. “Wait! Blaise…”

Blaise looked at him, eyes steady.

“He’s alright, isn’t he?”

“He’s alright,” Blaise replied firmly.

Potter grinned. “Just wanted to confirm. I know you’re very protective. Not that you need to be.”

Draco wanted to scream.

Blaise dimpled and his tongue played in the corner of his mouth arrogantly, peacocking. Draco felt a thousand times lighter, suddenly, just witnessing them be happy together. 

“He’s a good boy,” Blaise said again, and nudged Draco.

“I know.” Potter's voice was heavy, and coloured with something that Draco wanted to curl into.

He flushed hard, wanted to look at Potter again, but they were turning, and all he caught was a glimpse of Potter smiling after them, looking as though he’d found something unexpectedly pleasant.

The hospital wing doors swung shut behind them as they walked through, and Blaise turned to him, a small smile on his face. 

“Right, well, that went well. Fancy a bit of lunch?"

****************************************************************************************************

It was late, and the fire in his dormitory was dying again. Draco levelled his wand at it irritatedly, and gave it a flick. The flames pulsed up again, fire crackling pleasantly as it re- ignited, and Draco felt warmth start to spread out towards him, softening his posture even further as he slumped down onto his elbows.

He was sitting at the small desk beside his bed, staring down at a piece of paper, ink pot glistening at him tauntingly. He’d been trying to write for the past hour and a half, and the only two words on the paper were:

 _Dear Pansy_.

That was it.

Draco sighed, slouching lower in the chair and spreading his legs wider. He couldn’t think of anything, couldn’t get past the whirlwind of thoughts and emotions and new fucking information. God, so much had happened since he last wrote to Pansy. He didn’t know how to begin to explain it all.

He was in the midst of making himself another mug of tea when the door swung open loudly, slamming against the back wall. He turned, blinking anaemically in the low light, to see Theo Nott standing in the doorway, looking intensely determined.

“Christ,” Draco said, smiling despite himself. “What do you look so concentrated for?”

Nott rushed at him.

Draco had no time to blink, or even to put down the mug he was holding, half- filled with milk and a dark teabag that was fast staining the creamy pale milk iron coloured. The contents of the mug splashed onto the onyx carpet below their feet and dampened it as Theo crashed into Draco, slamming him into a wall with his momentum and holding the bony tip of his wand to Draco’s throat.

Draco coughed and spluttered, too shocked to move.

When he’d finally gotten his wind back, he gasped, “What the fuck, Nott? What are you playing at?”

Theo glared at him emotionally, looking strung out, and Draco could feel the superficiality of his grip – it was barely even there; his speed was the factor that had sent the both of them hurtling into the wall. Theo’s wrists, pinning him down, were delicate and trembling, not bruising him or even pinching at him. But the things that arrested Draco were Nott’s eyes. Mossy green and brown- lashed, they were wet and shining with a thick sheen of tears. Draco froze, utterly confounded and past his wits end with the madness of the day.

“…Theo?” He asked incredulously, wondering if he even wanted an answer.

Theo jabbed the tip of the wand deeper into Draco’s sternum, and he hacked in response. The pressure of the wand felt somehow non- threatening, though Draco knew it could do serious damage. In fact, this whole thing felt like a sort of emotional response, a desperate ploy for _something_ , though Draco could not fathom what. It was incredibly unlike Theo to ever lose his temper, as far as he could tell.

Nott sucked in a deep breath, and it caught in his throat. His eyes welled up even more.

Draco reached his hand up to pat Theo’s arm gingerly, still eyeing the wand.

Theo sobbed aloud then, and Draco’s eyes widened.

He was not equipped to deal with this.

“Mate? Are you… do you want to put the wand down? And talk to me? You can tell me anything.” He desperately searched his brain for that gay Muggle leaflet Pansy had once given him. What had it said the parents should say?

“Uh… I understand you might feel different right now, but if you just open up I can…?”

“You idiot, Draco!” Theo said shrilly, and started to laugh. “Why are you using that bloody leaflet—” He broke off, and bit his lip, tear tracks still shining on his cheeks.

Draco froze. Very slowly, he pushed Theo away from him and stood by himself, refusing to lean against the wall though suddenly his knees felt very weak. “How do you know about that leaflet?”

Theo looked down, and then up, gaze roving over their beds as if searching for an answer amongst the rumpled bedsheets.

“Nott?” Draco’s voice was weary. “Just… whatever it is you’re not telling me, tell me now. Seriously, I’m stressed, and tired, and I don’t know how you know about that—”

“You’re slipping away!” Theo blurted, interrupting him. 

_What?_

Draco must have looked as confused as he felt, because Nott rushed to elaborate.

“You don’t sleep. You don’t eat, at least not much. You won’t talk to me. I don’t know what you’re doing, but I can’t take it anymore, Draco. You have to confide in me. That was the whole point of this bloody thing…” Again, Theo trailed off and swallowed, looking away from him.

Draco stepped closer.

“What bloody thing?”

Theo’s jaw clenched.

“Theo, you’re hiding something from me, and you need to tell me what it is.”

“Not unless you tell me what’s going on!” Theo fired out, and Draco lost his patience.

“Look, Nott, I’m not telling you shit! We’ve hung out a bit this term, but frankly we barely spoke before that. I don’t know you that well, and for you to just demand things of me, pin me to a wall, and fucking—”

“I’ll tell you if you tell me.” It was a whisper. Theo’s lips were slick and pink, heavily chewed. Draco licked the top ridge of his bottom teeth, weighing it up.

Was he going to tell this to Nott?

Really?

But then… there was something about the way Nott was staring at the carpet, the way he was shifting uncomfortably under Draco’s heavy gaze, tugging at his schoolclothes as though he didn’t quite belong in them, as though he was afraid someone would point out that he looked different…

Draco needed answers.

“Alright,” he said. “But you first.”

Nott’s head whipped up, and he stared at him for a heavy second, before nodding, a hysterical laugh escaping him. His wand, which had hung limply by his side, raised, and Draco stepped back on instinct. Nott flicked him a glance and smiled, amused.

There was a pause while Theo closed his eyes, and lifted his wand in line with his head. Then, he murmured an incantation, to low for Draco to hear, and ran the wand from his head in a sweeping motion down to his waist.

Draco stared at him blankly.

And then Theo Nott began to transform.

It was small things at first, the sharp angle of his straight nose dipping so that it was curved and slightly pointed upwards into a fine tip, the freckled expanse of his cheeks creaming over into high cheekbones and flawless skin. His lashes thickened and curled, flicking upwards from their straight, short line.

Small, mind- boggling things.

But Draco could handle it.

But soon Theo’s hair started to grow out, darkening at the roots of its original pale brown and sloughing down around his shoulders in a cascade of thick, rich curls that glistened in the evening firelight. Draco gaped, motionless, as his hips widened and curved, his stomach gaining softness, his waist slimming and chest swelling outwards into two unmistakeable-

Breasts.

And then Pansy Parkinson was cocking a hip and grinning at him, that feline, familiar smile splitting her pixieish face in two.

“Fuck, these clothes are uncomfortable.”

It was a lot, especially with Pansy’s nipples pressing up conspicuously against the fabric of her boy’s school shirt.

But Draco could have sobbed for joy. He walked quickly over to his best friend without saying a word, and wrapped her in a hug, pressing his face desperately into the familiar curls of her hair. She smelled strangely of boy’s deodorant and cologne, but underneath that was sandalwood and clean teenage girl. It was indubitably her and Draco felt the aching gap in him where she’d once resided fill up effortlessly. He breathed easier.

“Pansy,” he mumbled hotly into her hair, and bit his lip hard.

She giggled into his shirt, and the sound was muffled but so fucking familiar to him. He’d grown up with that giggle, and his chest heaved once as he squeezed her even tighter, his mind for once not spinning as he absorbed her into himself as much as he could. And then, having overcome the urge to sob into her hair, he gripped her shoulders hard and set her at arm’s length. Pansy peered up at him, eyes red- rimmed and peaceful. 

Draco felt momentarily guilty for ruining that peace.

But then it passed.

“Why,” he took a deep breath in, “the FUCK have you been hiding as Theo Nott? Huh? You couldn’t have told me? You couldn’t have told your best friend you were planning to sneak into school even though your parents don’t want you here, and that you were going to masquerade as a fucking BOY for a year? Were you just going to stay as him the whole time? Were you ever going to tell me?”

He looked at her accusingly. “I was alone, Pans. And you never said anything.”

She broke in, looking distraught. “I know, I _know_ you were, but I—”

“But what? You couldn’t have told just me? How the hell did school even let you in, anyway? They let you do this?”

Pansy shook her head, ringlets bouncing, and though she looked upset a small smirk carved its way onto her face as though she couldn’t help it. And, Draco knew, she couldn’t. She was a Slytherin. “They don’t know. I managed to get myself in pretty easily, it’s just Polyjuice—”

Draco interrupted her, holding up a hand. “You did this in secret? I’m assuming your parents are also unaware?”

She nodded.

“But why would you…?”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Not to be a cheesy fucker, but I’d have thought it’s obvious why.”

Draco grinned. “Ohhhh, I get it. I’m your everything.” He furrowed his brow, looking mock- concerned. “Pansy, you _know _I’m gay, righ—”__

__She shoved him, hard, and he stumbled, yelping and snickering._ _

__It was so perfect, the two of them, and Draco would have carried on bickering but questions were still jabbing at him, demanding answers._ _

__“But, Pansy…”_ _

__“Oh, here we go,” she said sarcastically, a smile softening her words. “Honestly, Draco, you’re not my father. I thought this through entirely before I did it, and you don’t need to worry about—”_ _

__“Did you, though?” Draco said, tone turning serious. “Pansy, I know what pureblood parents are like. If yours find out you came here instead of finishing school…”_ _

__Pansy grinned, sharp white molars gleaming above her thin pink lips._ _

__“I have two responses to that. Firstly, they have bigger problems to worry about.” She looked down, momentarily sober. “I don’t think they’ll be worrying about little ol’ me for awhile, the way things are going for them.”_ _

__And, oh god, the whole thing in the Prophet about Lord and Lady Parkinson, Draco’s father and Zabini’s mum. He grimaced. “Shit, Pansy, that’s—”_ _

__She waved him away. “It’s no more than they deserved. Same for your father, right?” She gave him a keen look._ _

__Draco nodded, eyes honest._ _

__“Right. So it’s whatever. Anyway, my _second_ response to your concern is that did you really think I’d leave that to chance? You do know me a little bit, right?”_ _

__Draco stared at her. “Yeah, I mean, it’s out of character for you to just… but how could you…?”_ _

__She bit her lip mischievously, rolling her eyes. “Please. It was a piece of cake. All I needed to pull off the whole thing was another body. And, fortunately, Nott’s parents came round quite a bit over the summer. Theo and I got close, and it was pretty easy to get him to agree to this.”_ _

__Draco’s mouth slid open a tiny bit. “You don’t mean you—”_ _

__“Switched places?” Pansy grinned. “Yeah, that’s exactly what we did.”_ _

__Draco was utterly aghast. “So, what, you were just going to _stay_ like that for the whole year, or what?”_ _

__Pansy gave him a patronising look, the kind he’d seen in almost every History of Magic lesson for the past seven years. “Draco. Did you honestly think I was going to abandon you? For eighth year? We had a whole plan worked out. We were brewing Polyjuice all summer.”_ _

__“I… Theo didn’t mind? Going to _finishing school_? For girls?” Was all Draco could respond with._ _

__Pansy’s perfect lips pulled upwards, face transforming in fey glee. “He has a bit of a crush on me. You know me…” she preened. “Manipulator extraordinaire.”_ _

__Draco looked at her shrewdly, feeling amusement press a smirk onto his face. “Yeah. Manipulator extraordinaire.”_ _

__Pansy’s cheeks pinked. “ _What?_ ” she snapped, but he knew she wasn’t really annoyed._ _

__“You loooove him,” Draco drawled, voice lazy and deep._ _

__She squirmed, and he laughed outright._ _

__“Oh, shut up,” she said, blushing deeply. “Anyway, you can talk, Mr. I’ve Been Obsessed With Harry Potter for Eight Years.”_ _

__Draco sobered immediately, everything rushing back to him, and Pansy saw his face change._ _

__“What is it?” she asked. “Is it why you’ve been so preoccupied lately?”_ _

__Draco sighed. “I would have told you if I’d known it was you, Pans, I just…”_ _

__“It’s fine. Just tell me now, okay? I might be able to help.” Pansy took his hand, brown eyes earnest and entirely focused on him. Draco felt his heart expand with love for his best friend, and he nodded slowly._ _

__“Yeah. Yeah, okay. Well, you’d better sit down.”_ _

__“Should I be scared?” Pansy joked, settling herself cross- legged on Draco’s bed and pulling up the covers to swaddle herself. The sight was so familiar Draco had to catch his breath. A swell of happiness bore him up, just seeing Pansy nestle herself in and look up at him expectantly, eyes sharp and full of ready wit._ _

__He grinned._ _

__“Scared? No, probably not.” He reconsidered. “Okay, maybe a little.”_ _

__She laughed._ _

__“But mostly you need to be ready to make a plan with me.”_ _

__“A plan?” Pansy echoed, and suddenly she was grinning at him in that familiar troublemaker way he’d first started to love at age six._ _

__“Yeah,” Draco said, his own grin threatening to swallow up his words. “It’ll need to be one of our best ever devised.”_ _

__Pansy shrugged. “I can do that.”_ _

__Draco nodded slowly, blossoming joy threading deep inside him and warming him up. He took a sip of water, looked up to gather his thoughts, and inhaled._ _

__And he told her everything._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope everyone enjoyed it! Please leave feedback etc- I'm tired as hell right now and my eyes are literally sliding shut so I'll be back in the morning. Peace out lovelies :))  
> Also, hah, that last bit was cheesy as fuck, so sorry about that


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